How Things Work

Today it’s going to cost us twenty dollars 

To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book, 

A handful of ones for coffee and two sweet rolls, 

Bus fare, rosin for your mother’s violin. 

We’re completing our task. The tip I left 

For the waitress filters down 

Like rain, wetting the new roots of a child 

Perhaps, a belligerent cat that won’t let go 

Of a balled sock until there’s chicken to eat. 

As far as I can tell, daughter, it works like this: 

You buy bread from a grocery, a bag of apples 

From a fruit stand, and what coins 

Are passed on helps others buy pencils, glue, 

Tickets to a movie in which laughter 

Is thrown into their faces. 

If we buy a goldfish, someone tries on a hat. 

If we buy crayons, someone walks home with a broom. 

A tip, a small purchase here and there, 

And things just keep going. I guess.