A boy stares through the glass.
He’s saying, Dollar, dollar.
Three lines of traffic pass.
We’re trapped inside our car.
His voice says, Dollar, dollar.
I turn to you to ask
for something we can offer.
Three lines of traffic pass.
We pull away so fast
all my words get swallowed.
In the mirror glass
a face pock-marked and hollow
is saying, Dollar, dollar.
I can’t look through or past
the face saying Dollar, dollar
the face pock-marked and hollow
staring from the glass.