Same as Cash

by Tim Sisk

I can get anything I want
as long as I can get it on credit,
six months, same as cash,
interest free financing and
the world is my 7-11.
I could buy a yacht if I wanted to,
name it Serendipity, anything,
so long as I can make
minimum monthly payments,
little reminders from my paycheck,
like gemstones of the past,
school day pictures, chicken pox scars,
you in boxer shorts wrapped in green bed sheets.
I wanted you the most.

Bills come,
each month remind why
mail is no fun when you’re grown,
requires giving up oneself,
like donating blood.

I will pay them, these bills,
I’ll send them in with postage stamps,
Personalized address labels.

Small Portions

by Tim Sisk

My mother was forever on a diet during the first Bush administration.
Even now I can see her small portions as
she ate across from me, half a ladle of pinto beans, sliver of cornbread,
a piece of pork floating in pot liquor.
She heaped food on my plate and I was not hungry,
was pleased when I said No more.
She might have spent hungry nights watching Knott’s Landing,
lied about wanting to lose weight, fit into her blue dress,
so she knew I had enough food to eat.
So my body could continue growing from hers.