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The Bureau of Exchange 

Lucas Jorgensen | Poetry

Someone figured out a way to live forever, but it was costly, a complex matter of accounting.  

You  burned  an  hour off your  life   in  a  cigarette’s minute,  but got  a half-second  rebate for each
kilometer paced on smoke break.  

Subtracting  speed’s  saved time,   car-reliance  taxed  the average  American  a  decade—The same
quantity credited for falling in love, until love failed, and the  checkbook of the heart balanced, went
bankrupt, broke.  

Prozac reinvested  every second  spent sweating how much you got for  eating  broccoli minus how
much you lost  for dousing it in  cheese,  the conversion  rate on selling  blood plasma  for heart-pill
money. 

A cult formed, passing  one kidney back and  forth among  its congregants, working and worshiping,
going into debt.  

All was up, up, up, until collections reeled the cashline in. 

They brought an armored truck, a platoon of IV bags.  

Someone figured out a way to live forever. 

The rest of us bled life’s savings.