Elective Decisions

“I can’t unwind,” replied the dime; “It’s as though if I did I’d die.”

“What nonsense,” whined a paper bill, “Imagine living in my till,

Shuffled to and fro each day, handled more than men can say—”

“You’re both greenhorns,” said a twenty; “I’ve never had people shun me,

My green back can scarce set down before I’m changed and moved around.”

“Balderdash,” Ben Franklin said, “Do you know that this bald old head

Has found cocaine and hands and trunks?  So get yourselves out of this funk.”

“You forgot me!” Yelled the fifty, echoed by Fives and Twos complete

With fraying edges bent and bound; with oily germs and screeching sounds.

But then the till opened before the bills could say one small word more,

And nails of pink gripped three young Ones, and smiling they knew they were done—So off they traveled from the till, while Franklin bid them all ill-will,

And Lincoln tipped his hat a bit, while dimes and pennies followed swift.

 

The ten-cent piece who’d spoke his peace found caves of soft and flowing fleece,

Wherein the sunshine dared not enter, thus keeping the monies fettered

Within bounds of darkened motion, tossing as though a small ocean

Bore their bodies on its back, from place to place, from shack to shack.

From hand to till, from till to cave, from cave to purse, from purse to rave—

Across a nation passing hands; the change and dollars saw the land,

Always feeling just the same, and wishing for a life more tame—

But when their dreams were answered swift, they couldn’t reconcile the rift;

For suddenly their brothers came, and came and came and came again—

Multiplied in use and name; but losing value with swift speed,

Inflation did then help to weed the hundreds from pockets of tweed,

Where soon they found Ones in the street, and felt the sting of swift defeat;

For without value monies die, and can make no new business fly.

 

Piles and piles of useless garbage turning brown and streaked with sewage

Covered streets and clogged the gutters; falling from trailer-park shutters,

Littering the grass like leaves, bundled up like hay in sheaves.

And new coins came with faces chiseled; angry visages that were sold

To appease a country lost within ideals quite brashly tossed

Around as though their detriment was Utopia heaven-sent.

The whiny dime then wept and sneered, wishing for a life not seared

By useless waning wasting life; feeling as though swift death sans strife

Would be a greater way to live; to escape the unfair torment

Of essential uselessness—for socialism floods markets, and money’s outlets

Shuffle hands, until the cash will fill the land—their value barely rival’ing sand.

So learn from these lost coins and bills, whose lives swift became without will,

As Maoism stole their use, and made them live with bums and youths

Whose homes could not be found