Inflation

There was a time (such songs begin this way)

When every jewel that graced a pocket, each

Pebble and shell, keepsake of thought's delay

Over some bit of world, had a private speech,

The stored-up, light, long story of a day.

But now there greet the fingers, when they reach

Their refuge, in place of something that might relate

The feel of summer, searchings of a beach,

Car, house, and office on a chain, a weight

Of paper, a half-handful of silver speech.