The Little Prince(ss)

I’ve no time for fiction anymore.

A folly of a hobby, yet what could taste sweeter than this wasted layer cake?

Years and weeks, those larger tenders for anyone with leisure time to spare

(How can I afford those considerable denominations, now, anyhow?)

Can I recall whose face frowns on the thousand?

Whomever, he held only a few notes with his own face, mind you,

Not enough to carry a tune in his sow’s ear purse.

Instead I play with pockets full of minutes.

The change jangling as I count my fortune repeatedly,

Yet my blessings just once.

Sifting it in my fingers like beach sand in a swimsuit

Blindly reading my wealth like Braille

In my cinched up hand me down blue jeans’ pockets.

I remember the feeling in the grooves in time between

The hour hand and the sweep hand.

Feeling the smooth thin copper of seconds.

Im unqualified to earn hours anymore,

That time belongs to a different reader now.

Just as the hour glass tells me I was and I will be,

As the cliche says, it all spends the same, bills or coins,

My heavy change slows me down.

To cashiers, what does it matter how I pay?

To the line behind me, I waste their time

As I count out my minutes in cents they look at their watches

And tap their toes on the slick toast colored linoleum floor.

But it’s just enough to pay a poets salary.

Such a task for a quixotic empath,

Kicking dirt with swollen feet in tall worn boots

Right alongside the railway tracks. (I hope the train’s not the local)

My hands hide deep inside old suede coat draping

Over me like closed curtains hiding the light

In the cold parlor from the afternoon.

This picture doesn’t resemble anything familiar to you.

No dogs play behind me, chasing my strained heels,

No little fox to find me alone and existentially incomplete.

Down where the saddest of scars betray my enemies

Pointing weaponry at a made-up game of risk and reward,

Where I hold (hopeless) hope like a balloon in a child’s chubby hand.

Tightly gripping at the candy-cane twine, leaking

Air leaves a wilted poppy stem fainting over my fist,

Petals dripping red years from the tired back of my wrist.

A little fox chases me until I stand atop a moon

Drawn high in a blank white sky

Head bowed heavy by the ascension of a fool.