We were robbing banks on Saturdays
instead of going to the farmers' market,
so I hadn't had my raisin bagels in weeks,
and woke up late one night from a dream
of a crocodile in our bed and realized
what a mistake we'd made, so now we rob banks
on Sundays, when christians and catholics
and football lovers are speaking to their god,
who answers with touchdowns and sacks, if at all.
Our garage full of money, enough to buy
a Bosch dishwasher and not worry about
how much it costs, to send our cats to Tahiti
if they want, and to fund a revolution, though only
a small one, say in Liechtenstein or the Bronx.
We're rich. Not corporate malfeasance rich
but soulless day-trader rich. Still, being rich
without raisin bagels was no way to live,
fresh ones made by Mary who owns a german shepherd
named Carl. Who wags more than I do, though I
don't have fleas. It's not really money
I'm after: I hope to open a vault one day
and find a scroll or box or glowing orb
that reveals the secret of happiness
and saves me from measuring my life
against the lives of others, even dogs. I mean,
Carl wags like every moment is a cheeseburger
and Mary has just called him a good boy
for scarfing it down. Three bites, tops.
Whereas I nibble and nibble and nibble
and never actually get to the end
of the thing, or sometimes, I think, even the start.