Twenty-Three Dollars

The money came. Three days

and it's mostly gone.

I don't know where. The pharmacy says

shampoo and a magazine and something—

some other thing I picked up without thinking.

Twenty-three dollars.

The receipt is curled in the bag

like it's ashamed. Like it knows

I should be. Each item listed,

each line a small confession.

I have enough. I have more

than enough. But the bag feels

like proof of something

I can't name. The shampoo's

not special. The magazine

I haven't opened. The third thing—

I still can't remember it.

I threw it away. Or I'm keeping it.

The point is the money's gone

and I didn't even notice

the leaving.

It just left,

item by item, and I was there

for all of it, hands reaching,

checkout scanning, bag filling,

and still I feel like I didn't buy

anything at all.

Just paid to feel like this—

like something's missing

that was never really here.