Interest Rates

The radiator is throwing a fit again,

knocking like a fist against the floorboards

trying to get my attention.

I reached into the pocket of the denim

I haven't washed since that night at the pier—

the salt air, the grease, the way you laughed

when I realized I was short.

There it is. A ten-dollar bill,

folded into a tight, forgotten square.

It has a smudge on the corner,

a dark thumbprint from a hand

that doesn't reach for mine anymore.

I still owe you for the fries,

and for the way I let the pilot light go out.