On Sunday, the pawnbroker
closes his shop and spends
the morning in the park
feeding ducks, trying to
redistribute the wealth
of this world in ragged
cubes of bread. At noon,
he naps in a tent of spruce boughs,
his sleep addled with unfamiliar
rustlings and wild dreams filled
with peculiar transactions
with woodland creatures:
a squirrel begging to trade
the bones of his mother
for a handful of nuts,
a robin pleading to exchange
her nest for three worms.
Later, he walks through
the park, staring at everyone,
wondering what each person
has bartered for her life,
how much men have traded
for an afternoon of
chess and sunshine.
This poem appeared in Sugar House Review (Volume 3, Spring/Summer 2011)
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