Banking Magnate In The Mansion
© Surazeus
2018 12 04
How can we feel the spirit of our city
while driving through its maze of silent buildings
like ants hauling seeds through tunnels of faith
without the ability to draw maps
of human foibles in myths of dead heroes
that suffocate trailblazers in clean parks?
My father works long hours at the car factory
so I walk along the river canal
after school hours to hang out with my friends
who fight each other to play top dog,
so I wear the plastic Halloween mask
of Richard Nixon in the grocery store.
The clerk behind the counter hands me cash
because he thinks I am robbing his store,
so I grab it and run down alleyways
to hide in the creepy abandoned mansion
where some banking magnate lived long ago,
and watch police cars flash by on the road.
Strange clanking noises echo in the foyer
so I ascend broad stairs covered in gold dust
that shimmers in sunbeams through a high window
to open creaking door in large dim room
where books on shelves pulse with souls of the dead
who moan from walls more than two hundred years old.
Sitting at large oak desk by tall book shelves,
I open drawers to find stacks of white paper
so I dip quill in bottle of wet ink
to write my name in elegant curved letters
which fade like clouds dispersing in blue sky,
then I write, I will be king of the world.
Startled by sudden presence of old man
wearing brown suit from the old Western days,
I walk over to the hearth bright with fire
to sit by the banker in gold plush seat,
and accept glass of wine and thick cigar
to join him contemplating state affairs.
"I see you stole money from the food store,
but robbing stores is for rank amateurs,
so you should employ my more subtle method
of acquiring cash from the common man
by operating honest and legal bank
where people give you money willingly."
I chuckle as I gaze into the cold hearth
where gray ash stirs in breeze from chimney shaft,
then ponder how I can work for some bank,
but realize I must focus on my classwork
so I can graduate this year from high school
then study finance at the university.
Common thieves who steal from small businessmen
attack good people struggling to survive,
so I shall focus my mental attention
on learning economics and finance
since the man with the gun may rob the bank
but the man at the bank can rob the world.
I walk home to open algebra book
and practice equations till my brain swims,
then lie down on my bed in silver moonlight
and dream about owning abandoned mansion,
driving silver car, sailing giant yacht,
and marrying the blonde beauty-pageant queen.
As I descend the stairs to eat my breakfast,
inspired by hope for wealth to study hard,
I see police at the door speak my name,
so I leap upstairs and out bedroom window,
then jump to mattress in the alleyway
and run like the wolf escaping fierce bears.
Shouting my name, they shoot me in the back,
so I stumble and fall in dark abyss
of searing pain, then wake up in the mansion
sipping wine with the gold-eyed banking magnate
who laughs and opens jacket to reveal
seven bullet holes bleeding from his heart.
© Surazeus
2018 12 04
How can we feel the spirit of our city
while driving through its maze of silent buildings
like ants hauling seeds through tunnels of faith
without the ability to draw maps
of human foibles in myths of dead heroes
that suffocate trailblazers in clean parks?
My father works long hours at the car factory
so I walk along the river canal
after school hours to hang out with my friends
who fight each other to play top dog,
so I wear the plastic Halloween mask
of Richard Nixon in the grocery store.
The clerk behind the counter hands me cash
because he thinks I am robbing his store,
so I grab it and run down alleyways
to hide in the creepy abandoned mansion
where some banking magnate lived long ago,
and watch police cars flash by on the road.
Strange clanking noises echo in the foyer
so I ascend broad stairs covered in gold dust
that shimmers in sunbeams through a high window
to open creaking door in large dim room
where books on shelves pulse with souls of the dead
who moan from walls more than two hundred years old.
Sitting at large oak desk by tall book shelves,
I open drawers to find stacks of white paper
so I dip quill in bottle of wet ink
to write my name in elegant curved letters
which fade like clouds dispersing in blue sky,
then I write, I will be king of the world.
Startled by sudden presence of old man
wearing brown suit from the old Western days,
I walk over to the hearth bright with fire
to sit by the banker in gold plush seat,
and accept glass of wine and thick cigar
to join him contemplating state affairs.
"I see you stole money from the food store,
but robbing stores is for rank amateurs,
so you should employ my more subtle method
of acquiring cash from the common man
by operating honest and legal bank
where people give you money willingly."
I chuckle as I gaze into the cold hearth
where gray ash stirs in breeze from chimney shaft,
then ponder how I can work for some bank,
but realize I must focus on my classwork
so I can graduate this year from high school
then study finance at the university.
Common thieves who steal from small businessmen
attack good people struggling to survive,
so I shall focus my mental attention
on learning economics and finance
since the man with the gun may rob the bank
but the man at the bank can rob the world.
I walk home to open algebra book
and practice equations till my brain swims,
then lie down on my bed in silver moonlight
and dream about owning abandoned mansion,
driving silver car, sailing giant yacht,
and marrying the blonde beauty-pageant queen.
As I descend the stairs to eat my breakfast,
inspired by hope for wealth to study hard,
I see police at the door speak my name,
so I leap upstairs and out bedroom window,
then jump to mattress in the alleyway
and run like the wolf escaping fierce bears.
Shouting my name, they shoot me in the back,
so I stumble and fall in dark abyss
of searing pain, then wake up in the mansion
sipping wine with the gold-eyed banking magnate
who laughs and opens jacket to reveal
seven bullet holes bleeding from his heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment