Cheap Paper

Five bucks, they said.

Felt like tissue in my hand.

Held it up

under the grocery store's

fluorescent hum.

Could practically see through

the dead president's face.

The ink was worn, a pale green blur,

like it had been washed too many times.

It was insulting, really.

So flimsy.

Like a promise, worn thin,

about to tear.

No weight to it.

Just air, and faded green.