In These Times

is really something
with its unerring wisdom
forever on the hips
hauled around
like so much lading
though happier tossed off
without settling the bill.

You carry yours on a chain
in a back-pocket wallet,
mine’s stowed
behind a gold crown,
left mandibular rear molar,
which is how my family
will know me when I’m gone.

We did not anticipate
the cutting
cunning of enemies,
the force of greed.
Our money’s no good now,
our children dispossessed:
We did not account for this.

For Grapeling’s prompt to the Real Toads: What Fresh Hell Is This?