Day Before Pension
Her purse is light,
holding only
that last precious dollar,
change from the gas bill –
due last week,
paid this morning,
for fear they’d cut her off.
Somehow
the money hasn’t spread too well
this fortnight –
but tomorrow
another cheque will come,
and she
will pay the rent
and try, somehow, to stretch
each remaining cent
to do a dollar’s work.
Meanwhile
there it is:
one hundred cents –
her worldly wealth
until the postie calls
tomorrow.
The fridge is empty:
more barren
even than her purse.
But she must eat tonight
and so
must Mr Tibbs –
dear, faithful Mr Tibbs
her sole companion
confidante
and care:
the canine apology
who warms her feet
and chews her shoes,
and listens
when nobody else has time.
One hundred cents:
not much!
Just barely enough
for some milk,
or a little meat,
for Tibbs.
For herself?
There’s a buscuit or two
stashed away in a jar,
and a cup of weak tea
made with used-before leaves.
She’ll make do.
