My Last Sawbuck

I stop on the sidewalk

outside the shoe store.

A window sign says,

“Sale: This A.M. Only.”

I think of my son Jimmy

and the holes in his soles

and the blisters on his feet

and my last ten bucks

until next payday.

Then I notice

the breakfast place next door.

I think of my empty stomach

that growls and howls,

and my last sawbuck

until next payday.

And I reluctantly

acknowledge that due to

rumors spreading like tumors

at the factory where I work,

there may not be

a next payday.

I ponder my plight

and cried as I decide

to tear off two pieces

from my cardboard sign

that says, “Will work for food.”

“These are for Jimmy’s shoes,”

I say, then enter the eatery,

just me and my Hamilton.