When it’s a matter of a dollar,
thirty cents matters more
a quarter matters more
a dime matters more.
And it’s always a matter
of a dollar
When your mother gives us money and sends us to the store
to pick up some juice and a bottle of soda
and we have an excuse
to loiter and linger
to shuffle and lie our backs against buildings.
We were leaning our backs against a building
when I saw your breath upon the window:
your tepid fog against the glass
that made the sect all gilded warm.
And I loved you, I loved you, how happily loved you.
With your breath all sugar-icing warm.
copyright: C. Ward 2016