I fly to Miami and I make a payment.
I fly to São Paulo and I make a payment.
I take a train to Utrecht and I make a payment
with stops in Munich and Frankfurt,
where I make payments in discreet amounts.
In Central Park I make a regular payment,
like the payments I’ve made in Hyde Park
and the ones in Park Forest.
Oh for the days when parks were pay-as-you-go.
Then I make a payment in Singapore
and a payment in San Francisco.
Next Tuesday a payment is due
in Barbentane, at the chateau,
cash on the barrelhead, and by God I will be there
if it bankrupts me.
One day, perhaps, I will follow the path
to happiness and make a payment,
perhaps a final installment.
Perhaps I’ll meet you there, making your payment.
Who knows?
Stranger things have happened . . .
Anyway, I am all about my payment.
If I didn’t have that,
what would I have?
Nothing, I think. Nothing.