printed in white on the back
of his T-shirt. This young man in black
is the first alteration to grab me
when the bank re-opens to those
with no scheduled appointment.
We need security more than before,
I guess. So I am thankful.
Spots like enormous coins
glued to the floor at six foot intervals.
In God We Trust now reads,
The security man hovers
near the coin-spot nearest the counter.
Like a ball player running bases
he fidgets and starts, his hair an eruption
of frayed electrical cords. His need
to stay unstill. His forward
lurch. Something’s wrong.
He begins to tell the teller some
saga, running his hands back and forth
like a mad pianist. He manhandles all
of the counter within reach.
The teller, whom I recognize
from before the days of Please Stand Back,
furrows her brow above dark eyes
filled with heart. She’s determined
to understand. Her soft Spanish accent.
His rising tone. Plexiglass between them.
He angles out, never mind the tape
that marks our new exit path.
He leaves a void behind.
Leaves us without his name.