Monopoly
  By Barbara Rockman

I go to jail, collect zip, even with a house on Boardwalk
I’m no good at this, nearly bankrupt while my daughter,
whose swollen cheeks are ice-packed, even with her loss
of wisdom, builds hotels boasting casinos and brocade
ballrooms, high-class call girls and limos lined up.

Damn— I want cash too, but get distracted, crack
jokes, bring tea and solace, while the girl
amidst stacked college gear, even in pain,
collects utilities and railroads, forcing me
to mortgage Marvin Gardens and St. James.

She has always gloated over the gameboard,
We can’t quit. I haven’t won yet. Why is it I get
caught in some feng shui twist to capitalism,
meditate on mirrors absorbing moonlight,
pattern of like-minded doors, road light,

stare meaning even into this girl who insists
her house will be regaled with fine art, full
bar and fast cars? A goner, forever tainted
by Be Here Now and Follow Your Passion,
I forget to make money. No surprise,

weeks later, stymied by Accounting 1
she insists she can crack its code, master
ledger, credit, equity and asset, never
once opting to drop and add
Poets of the 20th Century.