The Banker:

petunias floating in a molten river of
pennies, what makes up simple
blood & bones, the killers

waiting for a beggar’s ragdoll
between the emaciated fringes carving out
Fifth Avenue — & what now? Will Laura

surrender all worldly oysters to be wrapped
in a navy apron (out of sight, out of mind)
on the prowl for spare change, release

the neon butterflies
back into my murky shipyards? I know
that the human condition is more than

rice bowls & plastic alchemy, that it, too,
craves flowers to graze on, but even then,
Laura, these cities can only be fed by clouds.