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.
I
Babbling savant
with mustache and ankle brace completing the
lunch break
drone’s
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
II
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
firmly
in the marble covered,
ponderously placed
solidly established
bank.
III
feeling slightly buoyant today
bubbly
the cod woman who
relinquishes
the precious pay
smiled this time
my charm
overwhelming
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
IV
Way too excited to write today
might get a chance to
fly
out of here
not
drag
through
the
doldrums
of
drudgery
hope flutters, vulnerable
in her heart
in her body
in the bank
V
The muse is wacked
messed in the head
a subtle temptress
that suddenly shifts
to impossible silly
stunts
my emotions
the sheer ridiculousness of my situation
at the bank
only able to write now, write here
like the learnings of the goddess
questions
tests
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
work
the financial physical feats
of wonder
I wonder
how long it will be ’til I can
write without the
security
of the
apathetic bank
VI
Checks her watch impatiently she does
I’m impatient too
to tell
the tale
of my listless day to
him
I wait in line again
to cope with my financial flunking (again)
perhaps frustration at repetition
perhaps repetition brings frustration
but practice makes perfect
nonsense
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
‘
