At The Bank

how guilty do I seem —

limping in long jeans
and ratty sneakers
to the bank and the liquor store
to pay overdue bills

pants soaked halfway up my shins
in light rain with no umbrella
or hat or coat
or smile

the teller takes a long time
cashing the check — she seems suspicious

“don’t you have a bank account
like everyone else?”

oh
my dear lady

let me wipe my glasses free of rain
let me stop panting
let me shake the cramp out of my foot
before I answer
that
though I am now
complexly broke and broken
I am innocent of the dumb you think you see on me
and whatever I may be guilty of
it is not what you think:

I belong here
am rooted here
no matter how rootless my finances
make me look to you
and while I have a bank account
I’m not explaining this to you
out of sheer pain
at your assumption

poverty I think should be no hyphen
in this town

just gimme my due
and you can click your tongue
in your own car
on your way home
through this delicious rain
you will not feel