Tuesday, August 19, 2014

ATM

Lovers Lane

It usually requires a lot,
this marvelous device in a box
or on the side of a building
that is capable of spitting out
cash like it grows on trees,
which my daddy told me isn't true.

There's the card, of course,
which must be in good physical shape,
as well as its magic
(or is it magnetic?) strip;

and you can forget it
if you've forgotten the secret-code,
AKA PIN, so you'd better make it
your grandmother's birthday
or an old phone number
or something else that's the right blend
of memorable and cryptic;
and one last thing
that's critical: available funds.

When I tell you that I've found
an altogether different variety,
I understand your skepticism.
I would be a disbeliever, also,
had I not experienced it
in so many unbelievable ways
on so many different occasions.

It shows up precisely
when my card is cracked or missing;
when the magnet is fried
and I can't remember my own phone number,
much less granny's birthday;
when my life is so overdrawn
that even Moses couldn't part this Red Sea.

And there it is, whispered into existence
by the voice that needs no words;
a voice that's whispered hoarse
because I have such a hard time
being quiet and still long enough to hear.

It spits out invisible invitations
to parties I never dreamed about,
dances I never imagined I could approach,
and then I smell fresh bread
and hear new music.

Of course, Fear and Apprehension
peer over my shoulder,
warning me against these propositions,
chipping away at my worth,
deforesting with shame and doubt.

It's risky business, this ATM of Grace;
daring me to not only reveal my true self,
my whole true self,
and nothing but my true self;
but also to offer that self to others.

Do you hear the sighing?


© 2014 Todd Jenkins

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