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

with us.

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


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