I’m alone, sipping water in a café
when the barista says, Excuse me,
sorry, someone asked me
to give you this, and hands over
a fifty-dollar gift card.
There must be a mistake,
I say out of shame. But I know
it’s for me. It’s like Aladdin’s,
the thrift store where I hunted
deals for months before realizing
Moonflower, the owner,
was making up discounts
out of pity, because I was looking
so hard. Or the time a stranger
found me sifting through a Walmart
dumpster, newborn baby
strapped to her chest, snowflakes
catching in his wispy
black hairs, and passed me
a wad of twenties, saying,
I’ve been where you’re at. No,
I wanted to say. You’re the one
with a baby. But as quickly
as she came, she cupped
the newborn’s head and stepped
across an ice patch
toward her car, and I said
the only thing there is to say.
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