Poem: Gripped

 

 

Gripped

 

the man behind the desk turns octopus,

every crease a tentacle.

his courteous dimples pucker

as they find my weakness,

i whose face went defensive,

raising a shell,  

only to find that banks

know all about such transformations,

and in response execute 

a series of well-ordered grips.

 

the beak of the creature approaches,

bloated on gold and ink.

it spreads my soul across paper

and carves my name.

 

my face hardens once more,

but it means nothing to something--

this labyrinthine entity--

so slippery and strong.

truth, i learn, is just a morsel

to be slurped and devoured

from its hiding place under my cheeks.

 

i rise to leave

but the walls themselves become octopus flesh.

tentacles roam out of the teller cages,

and the watery surface of their money.

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7/24 ... added "my"