Saint Mary's Bank

I am here alone, arranging to be more so
with legal separation forms
and financial affidavits, remembering
an inside joke or an empty vision
of our thirties, forties and so on.
What did we know?

A little room on the east side,
no papers then. High on the hood
of a station wagon, what left for us to follow?
What harm? None of it cost a nickel.
But now collections won’t let up,
holding me accountable for borrowed happiness
and stolen pride. If they ever come knocking
I’ll hand them all your photographs and keepsakes,
the class ring and that bottle of Bordeaux.

And for the first time in my life, I will kneel
when they say, this currency has lost its value.
Your gifts offend this culture.
I’m all out of objections, clean out of tricks.
I’ve spent my last quarter on a tall boy.
I am a primitive thing, grungy, coarse and bitter.

And after a muddily quiet hour, I am called
to the counter, altered for a moment, abandoning stones
and dictionaries, satchels of kettles and string.
The last of my possessions are here in this folder.
And for the last time, I’ll hand them to a stranger.