More Money Than God

my father said, again and again, shaking his head

in disbelief at any ostentation; the neighbor's gold-

plated knocker (we still banged fists) or my own lust

to own the autographed edition or the waxed bronze bust.

It is not only the idea—which should hold all of the pleasure—

but the poet's pencil marks on paper which we treasure

above the memorized poem. And so I fan my flushed face,

signaling the fast-talking auctioneer, who has traced

the provenance, and picks up the pace, multiplying offers.

And who now does my father's bidding? Heaven's coffers,

perhaps, are for the destitute; but why did he have to die

to escape the shitty, crime-ridden, never-to-be-gentrified

neighborhood of both our births? The cost of living,

he would argue, is not the worth of being alive.

But still he checked each lottery ticket which littered

the empty lot next door, praised their silver latex glitter,

praying to the beautiful unscratched, like little gods.

Money talks, he taught me. But nobody beats the odds.

Source: More Money Than God (Univeristy of Pittsburgh Press, 2015)