Twenty

Three a.m. The purse again—

black vinyl, brass clasp, wide.

She was on the phone, crying

about the electric. I reached inside.

A twenty. Thirteen years old.

I took it clean, no fumble, no mistake.

Bought a CD at the mall—fourteen tracks

of someone else's heartbreak.

She never said a word.

A mother knows her count.

She let me keep the money

and my face. The full amount.

That's what visits. Not the theft.

The pass she gave.

Three a.m. and I'm still at the counter.

Still thirteen. Still taking what she saved.