I Hear the Bank of America Singing
After Walt Whitman
I will go down to my bank by the river, and make myself
undisguised and naked—
I am mad to be in contact with my cash, it is for my fingers
forever, so youthful and crisp I could request a red wine
vinaigrette to sprinkle upon it!
When I heard the learned investment counselor recite the
charts and figures, ranging them in a fan formation
before me, his basso profundo projecting from the orbic
flex of his mouth, how soon unaccountable I began to consider Linkage,
a long-term low-interest loan, perhaps a business account!
And why not? I am huge, I possess more presidents than I need—
I will freeze them in space and proclaim my Self a corporation!
I will not wait in the maze of velvet ropes, though I have in
mystic play run my fingers along their plush loveliness.
I instead must move to the head of the business line, and
hold the virile teller in my manly gaze.
Spending all time, minding no time, while we two chant
together, O bespectacled investment counselor,
firmly tucked into handsome pantaloons and collared
shirt, their aroma of fabric softener finer than prayer.
The sniff of the fresh green carpet is a kind of innocence!
I hear the Bank of America singing, after eating Fleet Bank for
breakfast, the varied carols of customer service
representatives I hear, intoning myriad monetary options,
cheering the freshman customers and summa-cum-laude
alumni alike—who may complete a brief survey on the sweetness
of their banking experience, in exchange for a morsel of milk
chocolate.
O Overdraft Protection! O wise avoidance of insufficient funds!
In the dusky past, sadly resulting in countless twenty-five
dollar charges.
O Captain! My erect and fertile institution! I am aching to
press my flesh against your million billboards, with their
ecstatic ethnic businesswomen, who eye the EZ-Pass
swimmers in their muscular Vipers, Lexuses and Beamers.
I, like the late-risen yellow moon sleeping on the
surface of the sea—I am heavy with love, with love.
