Take the gas mask off. Take a bath.
Take the cake. Take the China exit.
Hell is out there too,
Other people’s concern,
Gods’ voices, at it like grownups
In the front seat.
Photograph from the Wall Street series, by Charles Gatewood,
Lunch tossed onto the flowers.
Who said you could take my blanket?
Cold hard cash–you promised.
A key must fit in some door or other.
No hard currency, yes,
Eyes in pockets, just a vacant glint.
The hand only grasps what it knows.
Everywhere is the sea,
This sea is everywhere.
This shit storm. This fancy death.
Remember being forgotten?
Can you?
Now forget remembering.
Bet you can’t.
Even if you could,
Who would you tell?
Craving clouds,
Closing in on harebrained schemes,
What about the lawyers’ fees?
The theft of tolls?
Who can tell?
The raisins big as plums,
Lines drawn across the water,
Never still for long,
Fish bait for the men who came and went,
Like parentheses.
Bonny Finberg
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Photographs Poetry