The Dollar bill
Phil kept a stack of them all
uncrumpled,
lined the right way, 60, 70, kept going
til One
meant many, One meant holy, or
something we save.
All the while the waitress pockets the
dollars under a dead ring white light
washing her from black hair to black
toe,
careful to know the end of the night
would amount to a greater black car
wash,
a crisp bill, or one with lettering on
it,
rarely standing alone in the spent
hour.
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