It is the beggar who thanks me profusely for the dollar.
It is a boat of such beggars sinking
beneath the weight of this one’s thanking.
It is the bath growing cold around the crippled woman
calling to someone in another room.
And the arthritic children in the park
picking dust off summer
speck by speck
while a bored nurse watches.
The wind has toppled the telescope
over onto the lawn:
So much for stars.
Your brief shot at the universe, gone.
It is some water lilies and a skull in a decorative pond,
and a tiny goldfish swimming
like an animated change-purse
made of brightness and surprises
observing the moment through its empty eye.
Thank you, thank you, bless you, beautiful
lady with your beautiful soul.
It is as if I have tossed a postcard
of the ocean into the ocean.
My stupid dollar, my beautiful soul.