Buried under an avalanche of money
he counts every night— he wonders why
the rays of light glinting off his pile of gold
still leave him sitting alone in the dark.
Money, the only meaning in his solitary life
never brought him one day of happiness.
He’s never touched or been touched
by another human being.
The only time he felt loved—
was being bathed by mother as a young toddler.
She shampooed his hair and fondled his genitals
to stop him from crying when soap got in his eyes.
He now pleasures himself in a nightly bath
in a window to a vividly remembered past—
thinking of his mother’s pendulous breasts
and her intoxicating scent while he bathes
in the soapy skins of dollar bills slathered
in cobalt blue bottles of Evening In Paris.
He deposits the ghosts of his unborn progeny
all over the sudsy waters of his dollar bills.
He weeps.
Milton P. Ehrlich 199 Christie St. Leonia, N.J. 07605