or pulling up just in time to nab the last parking spot.
Still underpaid and broke, struggling, the dollar shines like a
ribboned gift nevertheless.
And yes, a spot probably opens up for those who wait,
but all drivers treasure time.
Larger small favors look like winning the raffle at the company picnic
or an impromptu sparkling conversation out of the blue while
perusing the nonfiction aisle at the bookstore.
Unsuspecting, like those bracelets.
My beloved’s gift, the one I wore til it broke as I shed the last
shred of clothing, naked before a lover’s gaze,
my panties catching its piney speckled beads
and shattering its thin knotty hold on my ankle.
The wood bead’s dull clink on the ceramic tile motel floor.
While the other, a punishing thick relentless reminder, black
plastic prisoner’s promised ring, cut into pieces, stabbed in shouting outness,
that one that wrongfully shrunk skin and tamped tibial boxes, receding like
the mote of my motivation, and then gone, freed–but only fake freedom.
I cut it at its malignant root, vengefully scissoring its mad fastening.
And the final ring to replace the broken ones, a gift, simple plastic beaded
black, silver and white, sweet, puerile and true to salve the wound
and psyched out phantom circle chain.
A charm, a trinket, a child’s delight, and one small favor thoughtful and big–
infinite to me.