Unearned Interest

The bins are stacked like gray plastic tombs,

as I clear out the dust and the leftover rooms.

A weight in my pocket, a cold, heavy lump,

is salvaged from what I should send to the dump.

It’s a brass-plated lighter, a solid-gold lie,

taken from a man in a silk-patterned tie.

He spoke about 'grit' and 'the will to succeed,'

while I cleared his glass with a silent, dull speed.

I slipped it away when he turned for a toast,

a small, private tax for his loud, hollow boast.

He never did notice; he had plenty to spare.

Now it’s just ballast in the clothes that I wear.