I am walking through the neighborhood

―the radio wept for hours about the dead economy;

even the crows find no meat to pick from its carcass―

and I am scooping as much mud into my white winter jacket as possible.

The black and brown filth soak all over me, a stain within the perfect checkerboard of 

Preordained community.

I will place this mud in my closet, throw all my clothes away,

And store your loose yard filth in the hall closet,

on top of the old carpeting.

I will pile it, walk after walk,

Until I have enough stored away to clump into land once more.

I want to collect all the mud―worms and all―every inch of  land I can carry,

In worn and stretched winter jacket pockets.

Wealth is nothing,

Location, location, location is 

Everything.

This mud, a handful of it, a fraction of it, a whole yard of it

Might add up to something

When I am flailing in the economic nothingness 

sinking down all around me.

So do not ask me what I am doing,

You won’t miss this handful of dirt

Until it’s gone.

Scraped and bruised 

by neighborhood mud,

your mud,

I am investing in my future.