money from my hands like rain from clouds
copper suns and zinc moons and dead grass green presidents
pitter patter, flitter flutter
falling from the spaces between my good sense and my fingers
into cashboxes and registers.

and what are these heavenly satellites and stars spent on?
what are those famous dead men buying me?
tiny luxuries that vanish like morning dew
trivial things, unneeded and wasteful
a month’s supply spent in a day
by some lazy, jobless child
with little common sense and no self-control.