This poem was first published by The Red Wheelbarrow Poets as the poem of the week for November 26, 2019.
Who touches more money throughout the day
than the dude running the corner store?
I think not a single person in the world.
Probably not even a banker.
Passing around quarters, pennies, dollar bills
that have been around the block already themselves.
He barely even thinks about the prices,
his mouth just knows it when he sees each product.
I remember one time a kid was trying to trade me
hella coins for cash so he could go buy a fake $2 gun.
It was the one that all the kids were buying that night.
I was like why don’t you just go buy it if you have the money?
He said he didn’t want to look broke at the store.
I was like dude, you’re like eight years old.
And why would I want all that dirty ass money
ya’ll been scraping out of nowhere?
It’s basically the same materials getting gathered by local fiends
then getting passed between bags of dope hopefully.
Same dollars needed to hold the powder in a hammock,
on the curb lookin like they might just be breaking down a bag.
But they also got another dollar rolled up to inhale.
And those are two of the bills that will get fumbled around later,
gathered together searching for a dealer,
who’s with me in my car.
They look over at him to see if he got it on him.
He’s sitting there telling them he doesn’t have shit.
Already passed out the last of it.
Already tossed the plastic baggy it was bagged up in,
which, in another world,
could have maybe held a little sandwich.
he’s been dipping into his pockets and stuff all day.
Organizing everything. Taking money in.
Taking it in singles, fives, tens, pennies.
Doesn’t matter. Taking whatever.
Then trading the liability he got on his body,
stuck to his balls or sitting behind him sloppily
tossed back, using underwear as a pocket,
like a cotton wallet.
The money slips into his actual pockets. A big wad of it.
With me, he takes out the whole thing to pay for everything.
Even if he just needs to peel a dollar off it.
And as he’s doing that, I remember back to my babydad.
He would have me hold all his money just to get it off his body.
But even when you got nothing on you people think that you do.
You get harassed by the cops, or else you got junkies coming up to you
to see if you got it or else who got it?
Then at the end of the night, me and that guy
could be found around the corner on my couch.
His hands on my body in the warmth of the house.
Got his arms all around me as if I were a fat stack of cash,
but I’m small, so his arms still meet each other behind my back.
Touching me gentle as hell like he’d been waiting to see how I’d feel.
Then he stopped like wait he gotta wash his hands,
there’s black shit on his fingertips from touching money all day.