Something of the hoard of kings
hangs in the humid, still air
of the atrium before nine,
as the mind rebounds from stillness:

Fruit of looms rolled down like dice
before the feet of queen and vizier;
rubies, tusks, the metal of metals
gleaming like damn pieces of the sun;

Fine leaf, cork, jute, pepper, tea,
the freight of caravans and privateers,
barnacled with lore in the transporting,
tallied and laid down in ringing tones.

Something of the solid sounds of commerce
and thrift, the rumble of barrels on cobbles
and grunt of satisfaction at a deal, are
echoed here, reflected in bronze tints.

Above and around, fluorescent cells turn on,
as the day of beneficence begins.
The principle here is give and give,
to each according to his/her merit,

Someone decides. The hard cash of history
has been transformed by Ford into Eden.
Here trees grow on money and water reflects
a deeper view for the pennies tossed in.

What does it matter what economists say?
The thing is abstruse until bull meets bear
and the circulating medium runs to blood.
Still, someone will employ the gardener

And tip the custodian at Christmas
or whatever the proper time of year,
in cash, credit, gifts or favors, and say
“Good morning” in the morning rays;

Until that time when the beams themselves,
rusted as the green on bronze, evident
as the labor that builds a solid thing,
are called into serious question.

Then the first gains won from fear,
the first acceptance of shells and cattle,
will also be called into question,
should anyone speak—king, V.P., or vizier.

From The Endless Evolving Trilogy – A Poem Cycle by Hudson Owen. All rights reserved.