The Bank

A poem written while watching people while working at my local bank.

The bank opens at nine.

Tellers checking their drawers,

Officers putting on their best smiles,

The president sitting down for morning coffee.

And people slowly trickle in.

Young men, Mothers and children,

Little old ladies with their dogs.

All with something to do.

Exchanging cash.

Society's life-blood.

Always connecting him to her,

and us to them.

The day goes on.

Tellers making small talk,

Officers shuffling their papers,

The president taking afternoon break.

The trickle more a flow, now.

Handshakes, smiles, how-are-yous.

But never forgetting the true purpose:

That horribly necessary exchange.

At four, the day is done.

Tellers re-checking their drawers,

Officers relaxing their appearances,

The president already gone for an hour.