Abject we are in this old corner
The bottom of economy’s dogpile.
Our savings fear no passing wind
Like w.p.i.weekly nonfarm rolls.
We are oldies fluttering papers.
We shout in no halls of bourses.
Our diaphragms do not vibrate
To money-wet cries of brokers.
Term deposits are fixed stares.
As they stare, eyes turn marble.
Principal grows shrinking skin
Interest a sneeze,an abject nose.
This is our wealth, the plastic pitchers
Colored and vain, on our heads of hair
With jasmines smelling from our backs.
The way waters pour in them is beauty.
Our bodies are made of water sloshing
In them just like in the green coconut
That fell from a monkey man up there.
Our water dilutes our husbands mostly
Full with viscous liquids in gray smoke.
Our jasmine smells are drowned in them
And they make mostly diluted love to us.
Our pitchers are our wealth, red and blue.
Ere the cock crows we are up and about
With red and blue pitchers on our heads.