John retrieves paper money
strewn in the putrid gray slime
puddling the floor of the Middlebury
Transfer Station dumping bay.
Three bills, folded, crumpled
under his boots as he drives the van.
Home he washes the bills, a five
& two ones, one of the ones
only two thirds of what it once was.
What hand, what pocket or wallet
dropped them? I hope
they weren’t lunch or the gallon of milk
someone meant to bring home.
Flattened, faded, one five one
dried flakes on porch planks.
Trust John to turn tender to art.
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