Yeats and the Ghost Machine By William Doreski
Fresh from my wallet, a sixtydollar bill. I purchase a copy of Yeats and the Ghost Machine and receive a ninety-dollar bill in change. The sixty features George Bush Senior, the ninety, Henry Kissinger. The Treasury has been conquered by aliens, I suppose. The day looks green at the gills. Money dominates, but has lost its value. People wave their charge cards to aerate conversation gone flat. A stack of bestsellers topples on a child, crushing him like a cockroach. The parents sigh, but continue shopping for bargains to dole to people they barely know. The child struggles to his feet and wails in several languages at once. I want to help him, but my ninety-dollar bill ballasts me so I can barely move. I detour into the bookstore cafĂŠ and slump into a chair shaped like a tuba. The book I just bought anchors me to a world that no one relinquished voluntarily. Yeats' body has possibly been misplaced, one grave mistaken for another, but he doesn't care. His famous gray suit flaps miles overhead, circling the Earth forever, the sleeves working like the wings of swans and the pockets full of nuggets.
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