Everyday I walk onto the dirty grey sidewalk.

The rain clouds greyer than the walkway but lighter than my heart,

The raindrops fall as clear as day and

The black box stands only five feet away.

As I get closer the voices get louder

Back to black swirling around me in darkness.

Three feet away but I have nothing to say because I can only here voices thousands of miles away

There haunting and taunting and flaunting their money over my head.

I can smell the paper twisting in the sky over my head in the wind.

The dark dark wind. Cold to the bone.

I’m at the black box with my key but the key will not turn.

It will only turn when I don’t touch it.

That copper isn’t meant for peasant hands like mine.

The day turns to night and I’m standing at the black box

finally the door opens.

But what is inside is not freedom.

There is an emptyness

A sort of staleness

A black dark hole

And at age 30 it’s now too late

To take back what is mine

From that big black box.

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