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Alan Greenspan's Briefcaseleaves crunchingbeneath our feet in autumn, we met wet from a rainstorm your hair clung to your face Alan Greenspan's briefcase was slim, a single manilla folder and some post-its we professed our love. stuffed into parkas, your hand warming mine against the north wind, we braved chills your cheeks crimson we planned for the winter Alan Greenspan's briefcase grew, a few 300-page reports joined the folder winter came you were my snow queen we hibernated made love by firelight some troubling days I longed for the solitude of gardening avoided your glances was it cabin fever? Alan Greenspan's briefcase grew fat, like a squirrel's pouch with books, a thousand-page report tucked under one arm the other rescuing his combover from the arctic wind what a relief to see daffodils we fought over nothing the house had begun to seem so small, but I longed for fall, the crunch of leaves the wonderment I had seen in your eyes Alan Greenspan's briefcase grew enormous; reference material of some sort, and so full of reports that some were blown away and he didn't bother to retrieve them that day he raised interest rates half a percent I didn't see you Mowing my summer lawn I heard the door slam you had your own briefcase and stood above me on the porch, regarding the street like Columbus sighting land my tears mingled with sweat you were leaving me Alan Greenspan had two briefcases this time, one of them on wheels and a bulging backpack an assistant rolled a filing cabinet behind him interest rates shot up 
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