We meet every morning for
Toast and tea: what I call
Elevensies, and what he
Thinks of as a stolen snack
Behind his own back. Such
Is his faith in me. All things
Are grist for the mill that
Grinds easy and mellow. Much
Is sifted, chaff from grain; today
Even bills were brought to
The table. We settled accounts
Of the year’s remains. To weigh
Amounts on the calculator vetted
Is not easy when the soul is indebted.
I saw this as I fought to repay as
Best as I was able, kind with
Cash. Foolish to think I could find
Such a stash.