Poetry Thursday (rewritten into Friday)
No Small Bills, no change
She comes in on a weak front like an afterthought,
as the last white wedding dress drizzles of snow
disappear before they're seen, pretty in a so-so way.
Arms full of junk food at the WaWa checkout,
she scans an Enquirer cover, checks for cousins,
brothers, all the while guzzling a grape Nehi.
Her watch stopped at 2:06 three months ago.
now afternoons last all day, well into the night
she weeps because she can't remember why.
He said "Plastic". No one carries paper money,
you can get all you need for a promise, ask God,
he's the king of hope for the disembodied.
If you look carefully you'll see the scars
from where her sixth fingers were removed,
that is, if you count the thumb as a finger.
She had to take piano lessons and roll quarters
for years, just to fit in to rest of the world.
No one wants to take change from a retard,
or hold hands, though her brain is fine,
better than, as she swipes the smooth card
wearing a secret smile, no visible flaws.