Money a Sad Truth

Two crumpled dollar bills,
and $1.91 in change.
That's all I had,
filling the pockets
of my tattered
and patched
Salvation Army jeans.

I was on Exchange Street
in Rumford,
on my thirteenth birthday
with my daddy to sell vegetables
at the farmer's market.
I wanted to wander
the stores in town instead.

"Keep an eye on the truck,
I am going to the cop shop
to take a leak."
Daddy wandered off,
I took a slow look around,
then peered into
the pocket of the apron
he kept the vegetable money in.

I wonder if dad would miss
a few dollars
and some change?
If I had five bucks,
I would spend it
on Beechnut and bottles of Pepsi,
the way the Hallisey boys do.

"Get your hand out of that damned money
and start packing the truck!
Did you steal any of it?"
"No dad."
"Let me see your pockets."
Broken pen knife, comb,
and my meager pile of savings.

"You stole this!"
"No daddy."
"Give it to me."
I swear I won't cry again.
My lower lip trembles
and my eyes fill like always.
"Don't whine you little thief,
just give me that money."

Two crumpled dollar bills,
and $1.91 in change,
saved for months,
filled less space
than the hole in my heart,
torn open by not being trusted.
It was another night
going to bed without dinner.