Best of times, worst of times.
We’ve heard that one already.
Gone the days when black was a shadow
the white horse galloped to the edge of town.
Now the drip of water
inside a time-locked vault.
One gold coin rings on the floor, but the phone’s
been set to forward.
The electric bill-counters in the lobby
whirr cash like cards being shuffled in a deck.
Rubber stamps pound red ink.
Baskets between the tellers’ windows
are coat-hangered with tiny lollypops.
Dum Dums, they’re called.
Dream of that little reflex we have—
the reaching in, the taking out
a sweet piece of ourselves.