Minimum Wage

by Marc Darnell

I held my arm up high at the stop, the bus
went on, the final window's headphone hag
giving the finger. Each passing car said kiss
my ass, and I trudged home with grocery bags

of overhandled fruit, generic bread—
too poor to buy the split-top or the Wonder,
though it was only for the squirrels that bred
beneath my window sill; then I heard thunder

and waited for my ceiling cracks to leak
into my Goodwill pots. I like clothes
worn with holes— so soft, and I can peek
through them at neon signs that flash so close

I cover my eyes with them each time I sleep—
they also soak the steady stream I weep.