When I pull off the interstate in New Britain Connecticut,
My GPS says to turn right. I am on some sort of main street.
I see an abandoned Wal-Mart, graffiti on a cement wall that reads
Go Back, a red box, and beige apartment buildings, nestled so close
In overgrown grass that the children inside play in the streets. The
Urban sprawl is all the same picture of loneliness. The same grocery
Carts, the same red open signs that chafe my eyes, the same gas stations.
The same people. Glossy eyes, dry lips, shaky hands, everyone has a
Forced agenda to survive next month’s bills and wash up before dinner.
I’m a dollar bill among trillions of others. Used and re-used. Crunched
Up and flattened with each new purchase. I’ve slid from every hand.
I’ve laid in the palm of Idaho potato pikers at harvest, been tucked
Inside black bras in Vegas, been stepped over on 22nd street New York,
And left on white table cloths in Detroit diners, so the waitress can afford
The gas home.
At times, I’m easily found. A bill asking to be grabbed
From a lost wallet, but mostly more easily lost. A dollar
Stuck in the dryer vent after a Sunday wash.
I’m measured by the amount I can buy.
At night, when I’m free to sit alone, no wall clock whispering
Of duties. I can’t sit still. It becomes a chore to pose cross-legged
On my bedroom floor, palms open on top of the inside of my knees.
I address the silence with an uh-hum, and try again, to wait for
No-one but myself to show up.