IN LINE AT THE BANK OF AMERICA
Small town of Exeter, main street muraled
with round, dark cars parked diagonally
in the late 20s when Granddad was young
looms upwards like a huge black and white
photo on the front-facing wall that secures
deposit boxes and banded bundles of cash,
concealing the two tellers working towards
the end of twenty fidgety patrons inside the door.
When I was six, I had a little bankbook –
put my ten bucks for a month of gleaning
walnuts after school inside, reaching-up
to a broad, kind smile to keep my money.
“Hey, John!” breaks into my daydream.
“How’re you?” I scramble for a name.
“Still playing cowboy?” I feel the weight
of black beaver lift even with a mindless grin
making conversation. “Been at it forty years,
I’d say – guess it’s what I do!” comes
out of my chest that my mind let’s escape
like a snorty cow sorted through the gate.
But I can’t help wondering what I’ve done
with my life. We played Little League
together – he in his nylon jogging pants
and Nikes farming frozen oranges.