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?
Michael Quattrone Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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