Change

The overweight bum holds out his pampered hand

and requests, unabashedly,

“Change.”

So I stop and snap, politely,

“The election’s over;

you can stop campaigning.”

I’d normally toss him a buck,

but they’re getting harder and harder

to obtain, impossible to retain

since the record companies sued me —

175-zillion Monopoly dollars

for pirating “The Times They Are a-Changin’” —

and the bank’s demanding I repay

that $100K loan I took out

to cover tuition when I was 18,

too young for a cold one,

but ripe for credit crunch

exploitation.

But I guess I’ll find a job someday

with my BA

in Contemporary American BS:

diggin’ for dimes

but pickin’ up

pennies.

This whirlwind black-hole avaricious

economy

has sucked all the Change out of me,

leaving the bitter copper taste

of pennies, like phlegmy blood,

lining my throat with a pinch.