by Charles Pineda

Here’s five bucks
A voice says that
as the crumpled portrait of Lincoln
drifts on down, through the sun haze.
I don’t need your five dollars.
I’m just restin’,
and I reach for my bottle.
Almost empty bottle.
You’re almost out
says the god of five dollars
nothing to say to that
You’ll need that five bucks and you know it.
nothing to say to that, either
it’s only cops and politicians, know how
to talk back
and sass
the Truth.
The god of five dollars is gone now.
Only that crumpled portrait of Lincoln beside remains.
My bottle almost empty.
I don’t recognize the fingers
that take that dirty, crumpled bill.
But those twisted fingers are attached to my own hand
and the crumpled portrait of a dead man
goes in the one pocket I got left
with no holes
and before the first sting of new vodka
I say grace and give thanks
to the God of Five Dollars.

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Charles is currently completing an MFA in creative writing at Boise State University. After spending spent most of the last few years in business, in returning to school he has focused more fully on writing, with work ranging from prose to non-fiction to poetry having been published by such varied outlets as The Hooghly Review, El Portal ENMU, Quibble Literary, and several others.