Poverty sits in the center
of her cage, claws scratch
the barren concrete.
Her tail twitches pensively.
Her eyes are the moldy green
of a half starved cat
and her teeth are as crooked
as the banker’s. Feathers
rustle down her spine,
vibrant spears in the humid air in
like stray sparks of anti-matter.
She moves toward the bars and
like a wolf, lays her ears back
against her bald skull.
She does not growl.
She does not hiss.
She purrs with profound contentment.
It is the contentment of continual existence
in a cage. Or on a deserted beach.
Or with a grand audience. Or
meager laughter. With
a simple calculation she nods her head
in my direction and I want to eat her.