News Poetry: On The Declining Value Of The Dollar

One hundred, becomes ninety-eight,

becomes eighty-two, becomes sixty-one,

and so on. A corpse dripping blood

is still a corpse. Though if you gather

the drippings, you can make a soup

on which thin children might feed.

Or stray dogs. How they like to lick the pot

until they see, in the shiny bottom, their own

ravenous faces, which makes them go berserk,

howling, and tearing at each other – exactly

what we need for the dollar to rise, for markets

to open, to make America great again.



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News Poetry: On the Declining Value of the Dollar
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