
-freelance writer, editor
& published poet-
Alexandra S. Thompson
Old Money, no. 11
The night in all its splendor fell, but it was
more or a less a dampness in his shoes.
Lake-water swilled around the boat,
the motor silent, waves tickling its
wooden belly, the curve of her mouth,
hand trailing mist as soft night air
tumbled past, murmuring good-byes
to the chewed paper moon.
A lost evening, gin beneath flat tonic, Grandmumsy’s
ashes in a vase above the fireplace
along with the dog’s, the cat’s, all who
remained to be buried
God of capitalism invoked
at dinner, when the youngest grandson said
he would not share his cupcake All mine
The family laughed and clapped
He’s going to make it in this world.