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Spare Change

A man with a shuffling walk called, “spare change.”  “Spare change,” he mumbled clearly, rotely.  All of us were on the R, through the tunnel, under water.  Clever of him to get the train whisking away Friday night workers from the financial district, catch them on the longest run between stops, spanning Manhattan to Brooklyn on a crisp spring night when money’s been on every mind .. when we’ve been paying money for the hope of money, when we’ve been asking ourselves if we’re worthy and if so why.

If I had money, what would I be?  I’d be skinny and blonde and worry free.  Maybe we pay the money for a little window of time to believe the impossible — at least, the untrue.

I’d be good to my fellow citizens but likely boringly responsible, not even a madcap cross country ride like the one I wanted to take back when I still drank wine coolers and traded food stamps for cigarette cash.

How many “It should be me’s,” tossed tonight to the night sky, and how will the dashed hopes dance with the breaking day?

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