the money gone

the money gone.
even the trees know,
climbing into the wires,
the shrubs, the flowers
now bedded with weeds
and long grass.
the peeling paint,
the unhinged shutter,
the broken pane all speak
of its absence.
the money gone.
you hear it in the voices,
at the table,
sharing thin meals,
of rail booze
and fish.
the sigh before sleep.
the alarm clock unset,
with nowhere to go.
the money gone.
even love is thinned,
with lips unkissed.
it too knows.