The village clock strikes eight chimes.
Moisture forms on my upper lip,
precisely the minute hand shutters
& clicks over locking in on 8:00 A.M.
Somewhere I hear distant thunder.
The imperial bank doors swing open.
Polished marble glistens in morning light.
Strangely serene, I carefully consider the endless
accounting-journals waiting inside for me.
I check my brass pocket watch.
Its linked chain loops across my tattered vest
in the shape of a beetle's back.
I walk briskly to my work chamber
as my wings rustle under my suit.
A gypsy on the street begins playing the violin.
I consider the bank's ornate gilded-clock.
Seven minutes past eight.
Closing time seems an eternity from where
I take my post in the metal counting cage.
I sharpen my No #4 pencil.
My green visor covers my eyes
which have grown so sensitive to the light.
I begin the column of figures.