THe Bank Deposit

“Perhaps I cannot sign” he says

positioning a shaky hand over the deposit slip finetuning with his other the slant of the pen. He doubts it’s valid, “will that do?

I just had a stroke.”

“Did you now?” she says behind the glass, __

gold hoops dangling beneath gold-spun curls _

perfect as the Queen’s on a twenty dollar bill

and wreathing her sun-wrinkled face. _,

Her voice casts a light strong enough to warm the dead. “Did you have any warning?” she asks __

murdering the slip with her stamp,

banging it official, slotting it aside.

“Oh, yes,” he says, “a by-pass before”

and lifts his t-shirt neck high,

baring a hairy chest right there in the downtown. branch of the trust company,

offering up his scars as evidence,

like identifying marks in police reports

or a surgeon’s signature on the body’s dotted line— scrawly as fate’s

“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred,”

she finger-snaps the bills, double checks. “Thank you,” she whispers, “that’s all I need,” and he drops his shirt while she stows his cash.

Brent MacLaine