Call to the Bank

I am hanging my coat on a hanger

(fists as crunched-up as tight as two snails)

get out a cellphone and dial

with my teeth angle-grinding themselves

and my hand begins quivering ‘danger’

as I punch in the numbers to call;

circumlocute in self pity – the trial -

of hoping a human might help.

Decision

One end of a see-saw goes high in the air

and another end bangs on the ground of despair.

Tom’s in the middle with a foot on each side

scratching his forehead - he cannot decide;

(wibbling and dribbling, sizzle and shiver)

upstream or down a meandering river?

So he jumps to the left and strides to the sun,

freedom from wobbles, at last, he can run

smiles for the trust in his heart - that he won.