The banks folded, one upon another,
Paper thin accordions piled so high and wide
it took some seeing before I knew
my little stash fund was buried from the bottom up.
I should have known when
A stern faced Brian Williams talked about the first takeover
last Saint Patrick’s day,
Foreboding tucked between fact and fiction.
Concern tucked between dinner and dessert.
And out of luck,
Defaults and deficits:
The birthday balloons of a million little stashes
Falling to the ground with scarcely a bounce.
But that’s not what I thought then,
When I heard the first of it,
Then, even the far away tales of the great depression
Meant nothing until
The crack became so wide
One thing led to another
And whoosh-wash in magic time
My pockets jingled with counterfeit faith.
I cancelled my trips and catalogues,
Collected certain coupons,
Stopped my auto pays.
And organized my closet.
I’m walking into this Midwest bar
At 4 o'clock the Sunday after Easter
and I’m announcing that I’ve torched my house,
Watched it burn to the ground
Just before I packed my suitcase
And headed here,
Worthless and spent
Just so I could savor an ice cold beer
Free of the weight
Of cracked expectations.