Everything Costs

Everything costs money.

And if it doesn’t,

it costs time.

And if it doesn’t,

then it costs blood.

And if it doesn’t,

then it costs your soul

or your children’s souls,

or your children’s children’s souls.

And who knows

if there are any souls left

after that.

What’s worth the price

today or tomorrow,

your body or your mind?

My back hurts

from building this furniture.

Then I’m going to paint it

a beautiful, dreamy blue

not really grey,

not totally blue

one of those muddy colors

that can blend in,

and become what you want.

Then I’m going to hack it.

Like a Pinterest board.

Because my dream furniture

costs too much.

I check my bank account.

Everything costs.

So why does time feel

like something precious,

yet given away for free,

again and again

like I’m being swindled

by the clumsiest conman?

But a bank doesn’t take time.

Not yet, anyway.

Because my currency

doesn’t cost

the same as yours.