In the line at the bank a little girl stands next to her mother
who stands behind a man in a blue suit
who stands four people in front of a woman in a starch white shirt
who sneezes loud enough to make the man behind her shift
his weight to his right leg. This man has been standing on line too long.
He smells of paint and strange chemicals that remind the woman
of her neighbor’s garage. His hip threatens to give
as he releases a sigh as deliberate as a steam engine’s huff
A deposit slip fits into his too large hands stained with oil.
Today is pay day.
One hour for lunch and a drive through the bank’s drive-thru
has turned into a waiting game inside the dry-aired lobby.
He remembers when his wife did these things, trivial things
like laundry, shopping, picking up the kids.
She stood here once, he thought.
His name is sewn across his heart but does not promise to be true.
On their way to the door the girl and her mother pass him,
the girl reaching for the perfect blue lines
on his hefty denim costume.
fiction poetry "fact" photography