Best of times, worst of times.
Yeah yeah.

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.

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