A Billionaire
I quietly become a billionaire. My mansion is the first
place I look for rest, my estate in the woods away from
the socialites and their chilled wine. I prefer a toast
to failure, a drink of something sweet that goes
down smooth. It is my day to be hard, to spell my
name with a hammer, to chisel what I have always called
myself, what my mother called me before the money
came. Endurance means an end to pleasure, means
cash on hand, means the fury of the market and careful
commodities. It’s high times back at the mausoleum.
Each minute counts for a mile traveled. I am my face
restricted to want, my life paramount, my longing plastered
to every vista I have seen. What can tell me to stop
looking? What can embrace me like silk and silver?
Joel Fry
No comments:
Post a Comment