Some people, you drop a word in them like a coin,
And they whir into life like a plastic horse,
Surging and tinkling, bright with festive joy.
Other people are collection boxes.
No matter how many coins you cram in there,
You never get a song out of them,
Or anything but a begrudging clank.
You never know which is which, of course,
Until your coin is already spent.
You have to be resigned to lose a few
Or even a few thousand, in the hope
That it will all be worth it when the horse
Springs into motion; and, of course, it will.
No comments:
Post a Comment