That night she cried about the bills —
two hundred bucks in the bank
with twenty days to payday.
She woke excited
to cash in cans for gas,
mine the couch
for coins.
She insisted — Call me Rose.
She rifled the closet,
groaned at clothes —
Who could go dancing
in these?
She wanted to report
her Pinto stolen.
I convinced her — Wait,
then drove the kids to school.
When I returned,
three bags of pantsuits, shoes,
granny underwear
lay on the landing.
Upstairs she crowed —
Honey, I found
a twenty in the laundry.
Let’s go buy some beer!
Paul David Adkins grew up in South Florida and lives in New York.
13magazine 