On A November Night, I Think About Capitalism

 

On A November Night, I Think About Capitalism

 

When Summer’s bags were finally packed

and we bade her farewell from the dock,

our hope-soaked souls made a pact

to not be seduced by wicked Fall.

In a week’s time she paraded in

to the Maples’ fawning eulogies –

their fronds tainted in amber-toned sin

calling for her to satiate their greed.

She promised you, just as to them:

I am your prize! Win me over!

Take from me the golden stems

and remake yourself with lucky clovers!

Then your tongue said love, not lust –

you dipped your emerald leaves in the lies.

I watched them emerge with the same amber dust;

I mourned: thus, your nature dies.

         By Summer’s return, Fall had taken her toll.

         You waited like the others – slumped,

         staring down with vacant eyes,

         never again to be quite whole.