Collateral

A purple puddle of grape popsicle grows

on the paper plate between her sticky knees.

She held my pinky like a secret she could keep,

asking for Friday, for the swings, for the heat.

I said yes while checking the time on my wrist,

knowing the office would call with a list.

I’m building a debt out of sugar and lies,

watching the hope in her five-year-old eyes.