The teller doesn't care whose name is on the bill

The teller doesn't care whose name is on the bill,

only that the numbers match the drawer.

I slide the envelope across the marble,

the cash I spent two months trying to save.

The stamp hits the paper with a hollow thud.

It’s done. The ledger is clean.

I pick up the tethered pen to sign,

but the ink has died in the plastic tube.

I press down hard anyway,

carving my name into the wood,

a deep and colorless groove

where the money used to be.