loan oft loses both itself and a friend

poem for writers cramp

She felt the stale sadness
of a calm before the storm.
Another alarm sounds through
the fog of regretted things.

She thought of Portia's caskets
of gold, silver, and lead,
because those who already have
are tested with symbols instead of fire.

Prosperity would not be a gentle breeze
but a tempest that could bleach the soil
leaving a new world behind
not for the brave, but the entitled.

If they offered her money
she would grab with both hands.
Too world-weary to posture dignity.
And it filled them with pride
to see her so low.