Upper Crust, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 

Upper Crust

The scent of a cent

Is cloyingly rotten,

For it accompanies a century

Of nerve-wracked finances.

 

The feel of a dollar

Is rough and calloused,

Like the worn hand

Of a forgotten laborer.

 

The sight of a bank

Is like a great haunted manor,

Shrouded in vampirical conmen,

Out for blood money.

 

The taste of a check

Is that of an irate wine,

That is ready to stew over,

And become vintage.

 

Money is to a man,

What Uranus is to Gaea,

Tethered enemies,

Madly in love.

 

If you give a person a penny,

And tell them to go far with it,

You’ll find them cradling a lollipop worth a cent,

From a convenience store down the block.

 

And if you told the wealthy men,

To give back just a little,

They may just clack away at a keyboard,

And summon the horde.

 

Glitzy little coins,

How they glitter in the light,

Like a pirate and doubloons,

I shall treat the coins as my children.

 

Taste the money,

Feel the dollars,

Smell the cents,

And become overwhelmed by the gall of it all.

 

Bow down peasant,

And fold to the mint,

Let its bitter taste wash over you,

And then bask in it.

 

We don’t really care for your welfare,

So learn to worship the pecuniary.