“Is this where you spend your lunch break?”

I had just moved back from Washington DC, and was working on State Street in Boston. This was a poem I wrote over six trips to the bank, while I waited in line.



Babbling savant

with mustache and ankle brace completing the

lunch break


wait for the teller

to tell her

where the

three hundred dollars for

phone and parking the car

(not in Harvard) are

a mundane task

in a mindless life

in a frustrated building

where I wait for the day to end

and my life to begin


same drone

different day

same bank

different location

they pop up like cold sores on a herpes victim

red and swollen with blood or

green and swollen with money

the life blood of the working man or

female drone doing the

hum-drum dance to the

buzz of the queen bee’s

money monotone music of

greed and power.

Sounds like a liberal she does

“‘oughta hug a tree, hippy” but

my hips are planted


in the marble covered,

ponderously placed

solidly established




feeling slightly buoyant today


the cod woman who


the precious pay

smiled this time

my charm


the displeasure of

taking her money

same bank

same place

different day

Three places in a row would be overly creative ambition

save the new outlets for a rainy day

something to look forward to

she says sarcastically

hunger forces withdrawal

from external interaction

and transaction

from her preciously precarious pile

her wad

the bankroll

oh well, finish writing and

walk into the waiting sun


Way too excited to write today

might get a chance to


out of here








hope flutters, vulnerable

in her heart

in her body

in the bank


The muse is wacked

messed in the head

a subtle temptress

that suddenly shifts

to impossible silly


my emotions

the sheer ridiculousness of my situation

at the bank

only able to write now, write here

like the learnings of the goddess



a quiz at the end of each period

(or the beginning?)

Full moon tonight

floods my thighs

with fresh blood

fresh meat for the

men who stare with secret lust

I cannot understand:

for me

for others

for something I cannot provide or

do without knowledge

I stumble through sex like

an exchange at the bank

sometimes the account balances

sometimes I don’t know how I


the financial physical feats

of wonder

I wonder

how long it will be ’til I can

write without the


of the

apathetic bank


Checks her watch impatiently she does

I’m impatient too

to tell

the tale

of my listless day to


I wait in line again

to cope with my financial flunking (again)

perhaps frustration at repetition

perhaps repetition brings frustration

but practice makes perfect


when I look at my life wasted on

trivial moments rather than

the monumental achievements that even the

bank can’t conquer

but it tries

oh yes

oh dear

will you be there

when I come back

from the bank? hi-ho





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