The Banker

The banker comes for me
as I’m falling asleep.
Counts my debts out loud, 
drowns out my attempt
to counter by numbering
my blessings.

I get up and drink.
I get up and smoke —
a glass of warm milk
cuts nothing anymore
and nightlights just make
the shadows grow
arithmetically darker.

I know bankers
have children and love them
and fret for them as I do
my own; certainly 
something must come
for their peace now and then
while they sleep,

but I am awake
every night
and the only banker 
I ever encounter
seems less worried
and more hungry.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

Comments are disabled.

%d bloggers like this: