Smooth clay money denominated
by color. On their face,
painted brightly the words LAST FRONTIER,
lying in furious short stacks of ten,
maliciously marching across
green felt,
three deep and ten wide. The remainder rummage
between my fingers with a dull
ringing
as I watch the faces, numbers, shapes, colors, letters fall,
across the felt
seeing how they match up with the ones
in my hand, bringing with them the rising
and fallings
of the stacks.
I’m cautious to release them.
To my right, frightening stacks of twenty,
ten deep
but only five wide, powerful
in a more obvious way. Their owner is careful, but somewhat
more careless then I. He does not finger
his remainder, but merely lets it lay there,
lonely and unstacked. He broods
and stacks
and destacks, seemingly
without worry or care.
When he runs out,
he pulls out green wads of paper
and creates more stacks
of twenty.
To my left, uneven stacks that rise
and fall with haste, without nourishment
and with much frequency, seemingly with no regard
to the faces, numbers, shapes, colors, letters in his own hands,
not to mention the ones we all share
on the felt.
He shuffles his clay money between his fingers,
but doesn’t grow attached as they are tossed
amongst the others
far more frequently than mine—far more frequently
than everyone's—and are rarely returned
or multiplied. Before long, the holder
and his haphazard clay money vanish
and order is returned.
I smile at the smoothness between my fingers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a nice poem is it! Nice words have been used in the poem. The quality of the poem is in its flow, the texture of the poem is knitted well, the theme is fantastic, a very good image has been created.The another quality of the poem is its mystic music. It is a great poem.I like the poem; I enjoyed it while reading too. I am giving you 100/100..Keep it up. And at last I like to thank you for sharing this superb poem among us.