We Can't Eat Money

I cannot understand the fall air
in your radio show.

And I don't see the leaves
that fall from your concrete trees.

You awake each morning,
to the sound of the el train
rumbling through the tunnel
of your dreams.

Wondering why you smiled
in the face of the proof,
Painted on your dying face.

Each brushstroke a jackhammer.

A single-minded tooth
eating you alive, one chip
at a time.