“How much you say that was?”
says the guy as he slowly
extracts his 2-inch thick
smoked meat sandwich of a wallet
from his stonewashed back pocket.
Inevitably affecting his gait,
altering his posture,
and negating any possibility of sitting with comfort,
this monster nonetheless ably holds the man’s life:
photos of his daughter, his late wife,
and his dad’s ’71 Pontiac.
Might be a coin or two in there,
a couple forsworn grocery lists,
a tattered IOU from his brother,
Warren Moon’s autograph on a bank form,
and the spare garage key
embossed in the aged cowhide.
Never carries less than $300,
doesn’t trust those machines,
and always slips the grandkids a twenty.
“That’s a lot for a stinkin’ coffee”
he says under his breath.
Hands the cashier a fifty and says,
“Sorry sweetie, that’s all I have.”
© Michael Gravel