-the minimalist-

I went to the Bank of America

to count my money

then to the banks of the river

to count my blessings.

the money, it comes and goes

while the river alters the weight of its depth

with changes in atmospheric pressure; looks like

steel to nickel, to nickel-plated copper.

but last week on a slow day

my parakeet was actively peculiar

telling its tale of a caged life in relentless song,

but I still don’t get it.

I’m a different animal, grateful that it sounds

healthy and has a good attitude.

It's inside the institute of the Bank of America

where young couples dreaming of a home, hold hands,

sit side-by-side, signing their names on the dotted line

committing to an interest rate they'll long regret.

after the parakeet died of who knows what,

a silent requiem was held for the repose of its soul,

a soul as real as my own, at ten in the morning the following

Sunday in the main concourse at the Bank of America, where

the demarcation lines between happiness

and grief, between beginnings and finalities, between

questions and explanations concerning the dotted lines, but

no one noticed me to offer their condolences.