Petty change collects
in the transparent theatre
of the long-emptied whiskey bottle.

A birthday gift,
it lasted longer as an empty vessel,
than it ever did a drink.

In its costly demand,
I wonder whether enough coins
could even fit in the **** thing
to cover the cost of the whiskey itself.

Copper upon copper,
the small flashes of optimistic silver
offer the only belief in the reality of travel.

I have long lamented money
as the means to existence over life,
so why then, do I need so much of it

in order to fulfil
these ancient nomadic dreams?