A terrified wallet looks at the grinning billboard

There shall be a bar
(where I will never go)
where coins laugh like the greatest joke
just sent all comedians into the street with an ophidian cup
and a cardboard screaming for something to calm the roar under the bellybuttons.
There might be, who knows,
a bar where proud pockets,
succesful pockets and self-made credit cards,
make the glasses sing and sparkle like a wonderful date,
and one feels inside a commercial,
and the pride of greening checks, how great,
ones that become twos and threes and fives,
makes people focus on the table, 
far from the windows,
far from the cold footsteps 
of those who chew on their classified ads.

The poor girl, always small
and wimpering, scared puppy, 
in your pockets closed watched by five anguished
madmen.
Trickle by trickle, coin by coin,
your month bleeds away
while everybody else widens their evenings
and there are cheers,
and toast
(you only gobbled up some chesse:
Doc says you gotta keep an eye on those colis
having a blast in your guts).
Lend some money: 
Mother always preaches
about giving (her) back
what you/is give(n)
and the poor doggie in your pants
silently weeps,
and you feel the tears in her skin
the tears in your stomach( the future ones, specially)

But the good billboards have taught her
the sparkly clean ads told her
and her endless malls have convinced her.
Yes, like that candidate,
for example,
above you:
who convinced everyone
 to give him.
All you have is a list of useless ads,
(so many, so many newspaper ink in your fingertips)
polite interviews that have never 
called you back,
everybody
FOLLOWING THEIR DREAMS (huh, there´s another billboard slogan)
and you slug your way into the night
while your anorexic wallet
shields you shielding her
from the jeers 
towards a "unemployed and near thirty?"
Oh. The Horror.