The Pharmacy Tax

I saw him near the aisle for Vitamin C,

and I knew he was looking for more than just me.

He’s looking for the fifty I took in July,

so I hid behind the cards so I wouldn't have to lie.

I gripped a 'Get Well' until the edges went soft,

while the fluorescent humming rattled aloft.

I found a twenty in my jeans, a crumpled-up scrap,

but it’s not enough to bridge the wide, hungry gap.

It’s the interest that kills you, the weight of the shame,

of seeing a person and fearing your name.

I’m a man made of loans and a shaky intent,

with my dignity gone and my last dollar spent.