Other People’s Debt

He tips the neck and lets the red wine flow,

putting on a grand and hollow show.

The bottle’s cold, the glass is crystal clear,

masking everything he has to fear.

The light hits the beads of water on the side,

a sparkling little skin where he can hide.

His sister said the bank has called his name,

but here he is, still playing at the game.

I taste the iron of the truth she spilled,

while he keeps every empty glass refilled.