It’s not about cash? Don’t kid this old bird. It’s always moolah in motion in this world. Crazy or not, a man who burns a mountain of loot just to highlight his position has a quantity in mind. That’s my point. I got tons. It’s not my worry. What I want to wall away is sky, that cobalt arch mocking my flight-lost kind. The turncoat sky that is his turf – always plunging foot-first down from midnight’s vault, changing basalt insubstantial dark into his black boot – POW! I know a parasol won’t do, but I know my book and a criminal always acts in accord with his own fowl faith, or turns into a lowly, flailing crook, signifying nothing.
© Richard Harrison
Peterborough Poets 