THE BANK

The doors open at nine. The rich descend

To safety deposit vaults to clip and cash in

Coupons and hoard jewels. I go to a teller

Who tells me about a teller, Retig, who

Fled with a bundle, now serving double

Time in Attica, New York. I submit my paycheck,

Just enough to pay off payments, not a cent

For savings. O, I want to rob the bank,

All the money they make on money. I want

To visit, on visiting day, Carl Retig,

Find out how to do it, stuff small bills

In a bag, fly to Rio, to Peru, not be able

To spend so much in a day as I make

With money. And, if I'm nabbed by the FBI,

Caught napping, think of all the poems

I could read and re-read and write

In a federal prison, the rest of my life:

My Ballad of Ossining Jail, Surreal Penitentiary

Poems, Poems from the Clink, Pen Poems

For Pen Pals, and, at last, my Apocalypse!