Vending Machine; February 15th
Weigh anchor and sigh, the ship
has put on weight. The ship
is heavy with crates full
of cracked hearts, jars full
of garbaged blood.
Our garbled brood heaves and
ho ho ho it sighs, too merry with depression
for these summer skies. I unfold
the dollar bill. Once, twice,
and Washington smiles at me.
Look at that sly sunnuvabitch
all green in the face
like a seasick sailor
who has chosen my shoes to vomit on.
Wave-like, I roll the creases out of him
, curse the lack of choices in this machine—
Georgie preens. He is ready to be collected
by the mechanisms that gently tug tug tug him
from betwixt my finger and thumb thumb thumb.
I press the button
shift weight and sigh.
Inward, I die.
My melancholy gleams.
February Fifteen was made
for such machines.