The Clock on the Wall

Exactly a year from now, I wonder if
I’ll be sitting at my computer writing something?
I believe I foresee a good working title would be:
Heaven’s a Cash Stash. A good beginning.

Exactly a year from now, will I be
sitting at my computer writing something,
dreaming up a good title choice, maybe:
The Coins of Heaven?
Wherein the sky’s a huge ATM,
and my personal PIN is the birthday
of a robot monster I built during the year.

Exactly a year from now, I’m wondering
if a good working title to begin my magnum opus would be:
This Is Why the Sky’s Not a Custard Pie.
What I’m writing won’t be all eggy and sweet,
the crust flaky and buttery, and I won’t eat it with my hands.
Why? Because all these coins will come pouring down
like round metal cats and dogs,
and they won’t be slipping
through any greasy, pie-encrusted hands,
useless as soft-shell lobster claws
dipped in batter and deep-fried.

Exactly a year from now,
I wonder if I’ll be taking a break from writing,
have a paddle in my hand,
been swept up like cash from heaven
in the Great Pickleball revolution.
I can imagine I’ll wrench my back
then have a heart attack,
and lying there staring up
at the high, blue sky,
I’ll feel like it’s coming way too close too soon,
wish I were sitting at my desk writing
something with a working title like: 
Quibble Not with Gods Who Dispense Cash About the Amount of Money You Believe You Should Have Received When the Coins Came Raining Down.
That would be a pretty good long one.
But they’ll never be lengthy enough.

Once I can’t stretch one out anymore,
glance at the clock or not,
keeping my eye on the coin-laden sky,
I’ll be cashing in shortly.

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