Retirement Money

i'm counting pennies,
quarters, nickels, thin
dimes, pinching them,
tossing them into a jar,
then transferring
the jar into a bucket
which i will lug to
the bank so that they
can be poured noisily
into a machine that will
churn them into folding
money. of course there
are always screws
and buttons, lint, and
nails mixed in the soup
of coins. this makes
the bank man angry and he
scolds me in his Indian
accent, while adjusting
his turban which is askew
on his hot head. i tell
him that i am sorry,
that i thought it was
a clean batch, but it
wasn't. i'm sorry, my bad,
i tell him that this
money will see me through
the hard times when
i'm stuck inside an
old folk's home, this
change here is my bread
and butter, my easy street.
he doesn't buy it though,
and shows no sympathy,
but instead wags his long
brown finger at me
and says, no more, no
more change from you
in your dirty bucket,
you jam up our machine
with your money.
retirement won't come
easy.