I Hear the Bank of America Singing

After Walt Whitman

I will go down to my bank by the river, and make myself
     undisguised and naked –
I am mad to be in contact with my cash, it is for my fingers
     forever, so youthful and crisp I could request a red wine
     vinaigrette to sprinkle upon it!
 
When I heard the learned investment counselor recite the
     charts and figures, ranging them in a fan formation
     before me, his basso profundo projecting from the orbic
     flex of his mouth, how soon unaccountable I began to consider Linkage,
     a long-term low-interest loan, perhaps a business account!
 
And why not?  I am huge, I possess more presidents than I need – 
     I will freeze them in space and proclaim my Self a corporation!
I will not wait in the maze of velvet ropes, though I have in
     mystic play run my fingers along their plush loveliness.
I instead must move to the head of the business line, and
     hold the virile teller in my manly gaze.
 
Spending all time, minding no time, while we two chant
     together, O bespectacled investment counselor,
     firmly tucked into handsome pantaloons and collared
     shirt, their aroma of fabric softener finer than prayer.
The sniff of the fresh green carpet is a kind of innocence!
 
I hear the Bank of America singing, after eating Fleet Bank for
     breakfast, the varied carols of customer service
     representatives I hear, intoning myriad monetary options,
     cheering the freshman customers and summa-cum-laude
     alumni alike – who may complete a brief survey on the sweetness
     of their banking experience, in exchange for a morsel of milk
     chocolate.
 
O Overdraft Protection!  O wise avoidance of insufficient funds!
     In the dusky past, sadly resulting in countless twenty-five
     dollar charges. 
O Captain!  My erect and fertile institution!  I am aching to
     press my flesh against your million billboards, with their
     ecstatic ethnic businesswomen, who eye the EZ-Pass
     swimmers in their muscular Vipers, Lexuses and Beamers.

I, like the late-risen yellow moon sleeping on the
     surface of the sea – I am heavy with love, with love.