My Beautiful Soul

It is the beggar who thanks me profusely for the dollar. 
It is a boat of such beggars sinking 
beneath the weight of this one's thanking. 

It is the bath growing cold around the crippled woman 
calling to someone in another room. 

And the arthritic children in the park 
picking dust off summer 
speck by speck 
while a bored nurse watches. 

The wind has toppled the telescope 
over onto the lawn: 

So much for stars. 

It is some water lilies and a skull in a decorative pond, 
and the tiny goldfish swimming 
like an animated change purse made 
of brightness and surprises 
through its empty eye. 

Thank you, thank you, bless you, beautiful 
lady with your beautiful soul … 

It is as if I have tossed a postcard 
of the ocean into the ocean. 

My stupid dollar, my beautiful soul.