...My Money’s Worth... 

I walk out of the bookstore with 

a dog-eared John Fante novel 

and two one-dollar bills in change. 

Deftly folded, I place them 

in my left front pocket and 

continue up the street. 

 

About one block away, 

I come to a large dumpster 

with a homeless man 

digging through it. 

 

As I approach, 

I see that from the dumpster’s bowels 

he’s pulled out a large zip-lock bag, 

half-full of peach slices and juice. 

He opens the seal, 

places its open edge to his lips, 

takes a sip and upon his face 

displays a foul grimace. 

“Ooo, that’s sour,” and he says this 

more to the world in general 

than to me specifically. 

 

Turning to acknowledge 

my joint participation 

in his dire dereliction, 

he here comes to utter that 

distinct collection of words 

you’ve heard so many times before. 

Such said words are 

almost always the same,  

but each and every face 

ill-fated to emit them 

gives its own unique story. 

 

“Excuse me. 

Do you have any change?” 

 

One man’s entire life 

of acquired job skills 

has herewith been whittled away, 

and all that remains is this 

single string of words designed 

to elicit your spending money. 

 

It’s a job skill I myself 

cannot see myself acquiring, 

and yet for him, 

so many years 

of having said it to 

a forgotten legion of faces 

has removed all presumed guilt. 

 

“What guilt?” you may ask.  

This his vocal vocation. 

 

Was I to have expected some 

hidden expression of remorse? 

His every facial nuance 

leading up to the proffered question 

has surfaced no apparent pain. 

Then again, 

I might not have 

been able to see it 

were it in truth there, 

for it’s at moments like these 

that very little eye contact is made. 

Who can fully gaze into such pain? 

 

Hearing his question, 

a retort rises in my head 

but does not pass my lips. 

“And just what brought you to this?” 

 

No. We’re not supposed to 

know its sallow answer. 

It’s not a part of 

the current business transaction at hand. 

Read what you’re allowed of the face; 

extract the proffered story and let it go. 

 

I reach into my left pocket, 

pull forth those two folded dollar bills 

and place them in his outstretched hands. 

There he smiles and I nod to 

acknowledge our exchange. 

Eight dollars for a good portion 

of John Fante’s life and 

two for one that 

never makes it to print. 

 

It was a package deal. 

Ten dollars squandered. 

Ten dollars   in retrospect, 

   very  well  spent. 

 

Ó03 Jack David Hubbell