The
clerk asked for three bucks
more than I had in my wallet. I rifled
through the black-leather bundle
of papers and yellow-cased photos;
searched for the five spot I always
keep hidden for when
I can't quite meet the bill.
I searched the usual places;
found only a crumpled note
behind your picture,
between the ticket stubs
from a movie we liked.
I unfolded the tightly creased
paper. It fanned out in pale
familiar handwriting.
I read the words that always
make me feel so rich:
I
Love you,
Inga
The clerk stared expectantly;
that stare you get when
you walk into a room of strangers.
I folded the paper along
its comfortable lines, smiled
as I tucked it away
and looked up. I said
in a presumptuous tone,
Take credit?
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