we decided that year to replace money
with ferrets. live ones, not dead or stuffed
or skinned, and this was crucial because
it further necessitated the replacement
of wallets with ferret cages, to be wheeled
on flat carts, and backpacks with air holes
and little plastic windows so the critters
could watch the world go by. of course
fashion soon called for ferrets in pockets
and perched on the edge of wide-brimmed
hats, or else curled around their owner’s
necks like lumpy scarves, chittering
to themselves and emitting a rather sharp
smell. that was the end of wall street,
i’m sorry to say, as ferrets disdain a bull
market, and there was such a stir in silicon
valley, billionaires wading ankle-deep
in polecat, suffering nips and shedding
and the woes of spring mating season,
until (bug-eyed and gibbering) they threw
wide their mansion doors and shoveled
the creatures out to the waiting arms
of the area homeless. further trouble
arrived in the form of tamisha collins,
age nine, who refused to give up even
a single ferret to pay for ice cream at the park.
her ferrets were her friends, pink-pawed
and bewhiskered, full of mischief and joyful
nonsense, and what’s more, the nation
agreed. they’d burrowed into our hearts,
those floppy creatures, and thus did
the economy grind to a sudden and weaselly
halt. how to live without ferrets changing
hands? without stocks and bonds
and the hoarding of wealth? reader,
we overcame. we learned to ask for what
we needed, and give from what we had.
we pulled together as we were: our obstinate,
grumbling, ungrateful selves, whining
and entitled, demanding our way to
a greater tomorrow, a ferret in both hands.
