ATMA Poem by MarshallThe machine can only tell the truth spit receipts( sometimes out on the street) calculate how much your worth and make you blush if your bank account is below expectations. Each time I stand before the Master punching secret numbers searching my memory bank for the last figures I left behind I am apprehensive and afraid the ATM may punch back at me. There is a long Q at the back of me and the people that know their value often shuffle the most. Its us poor guys that must endure the pain of exposure. One of these days I going to tell the teller in the ATM that my value is more than just dollars and sense! Thank you. I'm out of the q now with twenty bucks. Phew! Author NotesThese days I am writing poems of ordinary things. Bus Tickets, ATMs, Cellphones, Railway Tracks, Mr and Mrs Ordinary and all things that keep us attached to life and living. There's more around us than what we care to notice. As a past time, I sit on a street bench and watch people as they go about their daily lives. The odd one deserves a poem. Thank you. My last series covered Revolutions and Power. This series will cover Ordinary. © . All rights reserved, 2 months ago© 2014 Marshall |
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