Recorder, tax-collector, landlord, friends,
This man is past his obligation.
Salesman, he is no market to be won:
The index of his power to pay descends
On graphs of strata, closes on a stone.
Like all of us he was a business risk,
Sustained a level after starting brisk,
Finally failed to displace his own depreciation.
He is marketable nowhere, auctioneer:
His liabilities zero, his assets zero.
His card has been removed from the credit bureau.
He is off the mailing list of the fiscal year.
His final real investment was to borrow
Courage from courage on the day’s receipts
And so by petty cash and small deceits
To contrive one more contrivance for tomorrow.
His ballot is not collectable, public saints:
His politics are simplified and sound.
He has his ear forever to the ground
To hear the perfect congress of his silence.
Weep for him, learned men. I pass around
The hat of sentiment, drop him your tears,
For you are in the contract of his years:
All that he did not find, you have not found.
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