Small Expenses
Tuesday.
Rain coming in from the west
in thin wire.
At the hardware store
I bought one good thing:
a kettle with a whistle
like a kingfisher.
Thirty-four dollars.
I carried it home under my coat,
the way you carry something
you’re not sure you’re allowed to have.
(the old one still works)
(the old one works
the way a cough works)
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For years I kept the money folded small
in case of the bad day,
the worse day,
the day after the worse day.
The balance climbed
like a thin column of mercury,
and every morning
weighed the same gray.
Now: water in.
A ring of blue flame.
Something hurrying at the bottom,
shhrrrn,
then the bird.
I stand at the window,
the cup in both hands,
and for four minutes
the street is a street
and not a list of things I owe it.
I don’t think this is about spending.
I think it’s about
which morning the money is for.
Some of it, it turns out,
is for this one.
Some is for whoever
wakes up here tomorrow
a little less tired,
a little kinder at the bus stop,
because somebody
bought them a decent kettle.
Let everyone counting coins
in a cold kitchen tonight
find one small thing worth its price,
and let it sing
when the water is ready.
