The bank deserved to pay
for its reprehensible transgressions.
Even the bankers agreed.
But where to find its giant shadow face?
The next feeding isn’t for centuries
How to force its shadow body?
And what about the shareholders
weeping gently in the alternate boardroom?
Should they have to sell yet another painting?
Footsteps out in the hall
sound gently ominous
like the future at last
had gotten up and begun searching.
I sometimes hang out in the room
with the copier, the hum makes me feel
like the whole building is alive.
Especially at night, when I should be
home with my television wife.
She tells me eat your sorrow.
Those are your just deserts
where you must go without water
to beat that dead horse one more time
until it laughs and coughs up
another monstrously jeweled president.
Part of 'In the Beginning of Covid-19', a series of poems curated by Jason Dodge in 2020