OUTSIDE A GENEVA BANK

I was on the corner
With the great cold:
A cold that gets under your clothes
And reminds you that the world
Does not want you in it.

I was at the bank,
Leaving the bank,
On the corner.

A man with a dirty face
Red around the lips,
Chapped and bleeding,
Asked if I was from Seneca Falls.

I wasn’t.
I’m not.

I asked if I looked like someone he knew.
He asked if I had any spare change.
The teller at the bank gave me tens and twenties.
I put the extra dime at the end of my paycheck
Into my checking account.

My checking account.
My paycheck.

I didn’t have any change.
I’m sorry.
I really am.

I asked the teller for
Tens and twenties
And put the rest
Into my checking account.

I offered him some chips or a coffee.
He crossed the street.
I said “God bless.”
I cross the other way.

I drove away, snacking on my chips,
Drinking my coffee, sitting in my warm car.

It’s the kind of warmth that reminds you
That the world wants you in it.

My coffee and chips.
My warm car.
My warmth.

I’m so sorry.
I really am.
I just can’t share my warmth.