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Poem

The last time, I looked at my checking account,
I saw a colossal bunch of zeroes, six figures,
With a zero in front of the other numbers;
I had zero interest credited to my account.
I started laughing, I started to count
The zeroes. I said to myself, let pretend
That I was B. Gates or Buffett, with all of their billions;
Dreaming ostentatiously large in a foreign land,
Where my shoes sunk in a box full of onions.
(I must confess that money has a funky smell,
Just like a sweaty accountant who has not showered
For days, or a stressful peddler without a daily sale.)
I was on cloud nine - dreaming and
Hallucinating. I was chilling out on the sand,
And living care free like a happy vagabond,
Like an audacious and brave actor named James Bond
On vacation. Suddenly, I began to realize that zeroes
Can have different meanings, and being rich
Or poor is a state of mind. The beach
Is full of bathers, folks and foes,
Who are pretending, and who see things differently.
The nomad with his zeroes is maybe
Happier than D. Trump, who owns innumerable casinos;
Not everyone looks at money the same way.
My zeroes have a special meaning.
The billionaires are spacing, worrying,
Earning HUGE interests and avoiding penalties,
So they can keep their amenities.
What they don’t realize is that one day,
All of them will be counting zeroes like me,
Because once they die away,
Their estates will grab all of the money,
And the properties; meanwhile the exquisite women
Will shed tears the same way,
The turkeys frown in the heat of the oven.
The last time, I looked at my checking account,
I said quietly to myself, “Let the jerks count.”

Copyright@ February 2022, Hebert Logerie All Rights Reseved

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