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When Barbara Gets Paid
by Molly Brevväxling

After 18 years at the Post Office
Barbara quit. I drove her
to work on her last day. I pulled up
and she pulled out
a twisted Rizla fat with weed
from her vinyl purse. 

We sat silent, smoking
watching the American flags 
wave goodbye.

Since then, she’s been sleeping late,
cooking big suppers for Michael
and Michael Jr., but mostly
she’s been waiting for the mail.

She’s been waiting for her check
made out to a hard-working
letter sorter. She was done.

“I’m not gonna use my hands anymore
like that. I’m gonna get my nails done.”

“We’re gonna go to Wisconsin Dells
and stay at a waterpark with the
biggest slide when my mom
gets her check.”

And when Barbara’s check finally did arrive
every person on our block knew it
(“Wooooohooooooo”!)
and every person in the country 
can understand
what it feels like after 
livin’ low and pinchin’ pennies
to finally catch a cashflow.

You cannot cruise quietly 
to the bank. You cannot
invest in the future (not right away).

No.

You must dance 
on the front lawn, throw a small
child into the air and speed 
towards something you can immediately 
consume, burn up.
Something 
you have been saying “no no no” to
for a long time.

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