$$$$ by Christopher Salerno

$$$$

You are the bankteller
you understand god
created nothing but rectangular
molds for money 

This narrow definition
of where things come from
speaks to the world
as a made place

Ask me when I first noticed
my own negative
thinking. I tell you
in these sentences 

A tree outlives its welcome
A poem doesn’t mean what it says
if it includes a sweepstakes
I’ve been staring out 

the window at clouds
Still the urge to own
a convertible
gone the urge to grow 

my own food
to go into the woods without
my bankbook. I sit
in the groin of a large tree 

probably being seen
by the neighbors
Lets take a walk
to the winter factory 

the piles of broken
appliances over which bats drift 

at dusk is fantastic
but before you can see 

into evening you must
be suddenly
awakened from your nap by coins
dropping, the sound 

of dial-up connecting
everyone electronically at sunset.
What, then, is fetish?
Half nude, up early I see 

a cat with snow on his back
I watch a squirrel plow
a branch of snow. Am I supposed
to believe squirrels 

don’t place tiny bets
against each other? Right now
it’s like I’m with friends
breathing and thinking less 

I’m pouring out
my free refill, getting city water
from the sink
All this meditating 

on money
returning to everyone’s hands
The sky is incapable
of anything green 

says the bankteller
says the branch manager
everything is fine
I close my checkbook and frown

Vermillion is worth more
than anything else
when daylight comes. The broad
definition of daylight 

speaks to the world as
a made place. If only I could stop
saying “whole ‘nother’.
Turn the coin over 

and here comes heads
It’s a gray coin worn smooth
What rates of exchange, what quid
pro quo, can you make 

out reading this? What music
is there? How many senses
are aroused?
I have an accordion 

file full of coupons
and maps.

Christopher Salerno.  ATM. Georgetown Review Press, 2014.