January 2006 /Volume Seven / Issue One | ||||||||||
Christopher Parks | ||||||||||
Currency Through My Hands Into the service station to get gas and someone drives up in a beater saying he needs money to fix the car. A raised index finger delays the transaction. I hand out a bottle found in the back seat. The man, cheated, pops his hood to continue the deal to the bitter end. He is the kind of skinny that comes in stages. This young pale girl of a boy emerges from the passenger side. A transvestite hooker eyeing customers- She offers herself to a blue pick-up. The cab of the truck is alive with haggling. A moment later, when she reveals the goods the hooker topples from the passenger side. and kicks the ride as it pulls away. Rage flies out in a gift of tongues. The truck adds distance along with shame Reverence disillusioned with the discrepancies between illusion and the scheme. A man in his fifties stumbles up and unzips a pouch filled with needles. Small bottles of insulin flash omniscient to the sun. He tells me of illness and a need for cash. I kneel again and emerge with over $1.20 in returnable bottles that I offer up. I continue to pump my fuel while consternation is born again to the satisfaction of comprise. This trinity of commerce helped along their way And not a single bit of currency through my hands. |
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