Bill

The bullet hole is only a metaphor.
My chest is really my coffer. I will
hemorrhage cash in iambic gushes
unless I plug the dime-sized entry
wound with an index finger. Money
is everybody’s dirty job, a lock box
of gilt misery, measured slugs, or empty
weight waiting to be blown. My penny-
traded body, fiscally sound, silenced
by a modest deposit of silver and
cold. So I’m loaded. A rich vein struck
and stuck up, and vain. I’d pay but no-
body will sell me a pill for the pain.
Where’s a copper when you need one?