The homeless Russian woman on the bench in the subway greeted each of us
as Sir and asked for small favors.
“Is it cold too much?” – pointing upstairs
“Can you take dollar and buy me candy bar?”
The city is reduced to one comical honk and a child
Shut the Fuck. Up.
Like a skyscraper
and I want credit for everything
The tip jar fills up with dollars;
like spent casings from wordless transactions.
Hot to the touch–
I like to think of them as notes from children
whose adult bodies grey with the color of money
and then waste them on a good fatty sandwich
in the cement corner near the table that holds old Thermos®, and needs
a couple of coasters under one leg to keep from shaking.