"Rattle, clang" says he, pointlessly;
what sounds could be gleaned are drowning
in a thatch of frayed wiring.
The greased-rail hinge that is his jaw
withdraws to end the dialogue
before positing a query:
could his thoughts be his currency?
They seem to spring from his gullet
like a slug from an old musket,
but afford him less than nothing.
Through each sale, he is suffering.
He had been purchased once before,
before succumbing to his state,
his age and the wearing of cords,
which he figures might sever soon.
Wonderful Lines These Gems
"...the wearing of cords, which he figures might sever soon." Theses thoughts are his currency, undoubtedly ~~A~~