Poem for Sunday, November 22, 2009

Business Meeting

After my second or third screwdriver, I sold Connecticut Avenue to

my friend for three hundred dollars.

It was a terrible investment to begin with; the snake-eyed dice told

everyone to pass it by. The car piece sped through. The train piece

choo-chooed away. It quickly became the ghost town of the board, unfit

for nothing save a tumbleweed.

So, I sold it. And as soon as I did, everyone bailed themselves out of

jail and started landing where? Connecticut Avenue. The thought of paying

twenty-eight dollars to rent a space I owned two minutes ago made

me want another drink.

I made another drink. I sat back down, and decided there was no way

for me to win the game. Feeling victimized, I went into a financial frenzy,

liquidating my ass(ets) like madman who wanted cash and wanted it

fast. But in the end, the bastards busted all of my trusts and left me

without a paper dollar to my name.

Our business meeting was finally adjourned, and I don't plan on

visiting Connecticut Avenue anytime soon.