The Birth of Capitalism
A child learns to run today.
His pace picks up as the dead president
winged by the wind is buried
in his clumsy fingers.
Behind the bean-cart my buddy works,
for five dollars an hour plus tips, we meet
after I finish with the clipboard selling windows
door-to-door. We lock up the sheet metal heap
playing tug-of-war with the pulley system cable
we crank the wheel and he feeds me what’s left
of the wilted beans. Waistlines of our T-shirts
wiping foreheads and countertops dry.
I see the child stumbling down
the faux cobblestone of the strip mall.
Plastic speakers disguised as rock line
his belligerent path. Chunky hands –
clean and pink – desperate to hug
a dollar bill.
When he does, we are all together.
My cheap polo with the window company logo
My buddy’s apron hanging over his shoulder.
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