Call me an idiot, but I just sent
$25 directly to Elon Musk,
the richest man in the world. Oh I have spent
my life’s last cent on fortune’s brusque
mercurial whim; paid Trevi’s rent
without a wish, while pearling in the Roman dusk
old Oceanus, pale and liquescent
gazed cold at my once-wallet’s empty husk
and thought of all his river-fathered gods,
the wet, the warlike, horny, huntress, smith,
and they, in turn, such meddling monsters made
as men: kings and peasants, saints and clods,
the woe of ever passing into myth—
from world-surrounding sea to getting paid.