Money
Money is a kind of poetry.– Wallace Stevens
Money, the
long green,
cash, stash, rhino, jack
or just plain dough.
Chock it
up, fork it over,
shell it out. Watch it
burn holes through pockets.
To be made
of it! To have it
to burn! Greenbacks, double eagles,
megabucks and Ginnie Maes.
It greases
the palm, feathers a nest,
holds heads above water,
makes both ends meet.
Money breeds
money.
Gathering interest, compounding daily.
Always in circulation.
Money. You
don't know where it's been,
but you put it where your mouth is.
And it talks.
from The Gods of Winter
© 1991 Dana Gioia