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Issue 5, April 2010

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Money and Beauty, Sitting in a Tree
Nick Thran

I have bureaus set up in the cities she frequents.
Wired the chinchilla coat I gave as a gift
when she turned six hundred and five.
I get reports from my staff of her goings-on:
the wing-burst of kestrels in Prague,
the new neon signs in Milwaukee.
I have an accordion file full of the moments
the world has caught fire in her presence.
I must look like a drunken polka musician
late at night in my office. Itís hard on our kids.
Iíve given up on overseeing the design
of my series of homes in the shapes of chandeliers
to hang under big city causeways and bridges.
I prefer using the payphone to using my cell.
A staffer says the smell of cinnamon is hovering
in the air in Dakar. A staffer says they spotted her
slow dancing with the butcher in Montreal,
the customers clapping, stomping and smiling.
She comes home twice a year. Thereís a marble sink
built into our foyer. I tell her how gorgeous she looks.
She lets me wash both of her hands.

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