Bank Machine
by Judith Johnson

The woman asks for a pen, but I don’t have one.

She gives me a warm and motherly smile
never mind, she likes me for looking
and scurries into the bank.

I hold up a guy by holding her place in line
basking in the sunshine of her face

The petty bastard makes me feel like a twit
when he cuts me off to get to the next free machine

I am glad I’m not in that much of a hurry.