He waits with hungry eyes
For eight dollars’ worth
Of empty promises
Words from the wallet
Desperate to believe
In predetermination
That his fingertips are at fault
She traces his hands
Searches for secrets
As if they run skin deep
Red lacquer nails
On sandpaper skin
(It is what we touch
And not our palms
That defines us)
The curve of a bottle
Was all too familiar
And a hand to hold
Almost foreign
After years of absence
The only lifeline left
Exists upon his palm
He lost touch long ago
Perhaps that is why
He pays for his future
Almost believes her
When she says it will be bright
But his head line reads loss
So he leaves a tip
And says he’ll come again