It’s always on a Monday morning—

a man who forgets how to breathe,

is driven by a fear of hunger,

determined to make more money.

Enough is never enough.

There’s no time to listen to birds ,

marvel at crocuses popping up,

or lie on his back imagining

what can be gleaned in a Rorschach

of unending clouds drifting by.

He misses out on the texture

of his wife’s soft skin, tender

as a new born babe on her svelte body.

He eats too much, drinks too much

and is a non-stop chain smoker.

He swallows food without tasting

or chewing —with Tums for desert.

When an elephant plops down

on his chest, he drives toward

the hospital, but his galloping heart

comes to a halt at the Bank of America.

He planned to make a quick stop

to salvage his unreported cash

stash away in a bank deposit box.

A flock of swallows warm themselves

on the warm hood of his car’s engine,

chuntering away, a twitter-warble

he never listened to while still alive.