More Money Than God

my father said, again and again, shaking his head in disbelief at any ostentation; the neighbor's gold- plated knocker (we still banged fists) or my own lust to own the autographed edition or the waxed bronze bust. It is not only the idea—which should hold all of the pleasure— but the poet's pencil marks on paper which we treasure above the memorized poem. And so I fan my flushed face, signaling the fast-talking auctioneer, who has traced the provenance, and picks up the pace, multiplying offers. And who now does my father's bidding? Heaven's coffers, perhaps, are for the destitute; but why did he have to die to escape the shitty, crime-ridden, never-t0-be-gentrified neighborhood of both our births? The cost of living, he would argue, is not the worth of being alive. But still he checked each lottery ticket which littered the empty lot next door, praised their silver latex glitter, praying to the beautiful unscratched, like little gods. Money talks, he taught me. But nobody beats the odds.