Whatever assets this poem originally held
have been frozen.
It all began with an extended recession of ideas
followed by a lack of liquidity in the rhythm.
The word bank threatened foreclosure,
so my readers made a run on the themes.
I declared a bankruptcy of imagery,
and have applied for internal rhyme restructuring.
This bailout plan must free up every verse
to become more than mere metaphor
but a shining symbol of the strength
of domestic poetry demand.
Perhaps I should travel to Washington, D.C.
by public quatrain
humbly petition the United States Poet Laureate
to inject some capital in my meter
some principal, not Ponzi, in my personification.
Of course, the rate of interest in these lines
is already fixed at zero
but I’ve confidence in the market:
a simple infusion of acumen
at the top
will undoubtedly trickle down.