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