Shells; Cash by Tom Barlow

Shells

Sure, an oyster holds secrets

but I own an oyster knife.

I can read that thought

every morning in my

lover's eyes as I wake her

sliding into bed.

For those of us who work nights

fidelity is a shifty fellow.

The clock sweeps a lot of intent

into dark corners and temptation

will buy a guy a drink.

I know a fellow worked

night shift for years

while his wife tracked the moon.

He knows the dawn

can pry a guy right open 

he knows daylight can

slurp him down and only

the truth of him will remain

there shining like a pearl.

Cash

A sawbuck was ten dollars

hot cash there in the front pocket

of my bell bottoms as I waited

impatient as a school kid

with a snowball

for the guy with the blotter acid

I liked to imagine myself

on an album cover

Jimi Hendrix Are You Experienced

wearing the clothes of a peacock

the boa the hair the hip huggers

I feigned their insouciance as

I explored how much elation

I could handle

we would pitch pennies

while we waited for takeoff

each thumb flick the clatter of

a coin against the wall

fell into the ruckus of "Helter Skelter"

and swigs of Boone's Farm Apple Wine

we treated our cash

like dumb servants back then

go fetch, we would say,

a pack of smokes

a Vonnegut paperback

the new Yes vinyl

and cash would return with

the item in its green maw

today I left home to shop without

a thought for the folding money

that merchants now scorn

in favor of plastic promises

and since I no longer buy acid trips

in dark alleyways

 my life has grown narrow

so I have no use for cash anymore

except to flip a quarter

when the stakes are small

and either choice will do.