Elliot Biggs stood at the door of the bank,
the check, crumpled—his thumb pressed hard to the ink,
ten years gone in a breathless sigh,
dull eyes upon the numbers, mocking figures
of all he’d stacked up brick by brick,
a house of sweat built on borrowed hours,
mortared with Mondays, polished with Fridays,
now in his palm, just paper, just numbers,
just enough to forget.
He thought, then, of the pint he’d pour—
cool amber drowning the tight knot,
each sip a soft erasure of the sharp fact:
Out. Gone. Done.
A corner stool, a cigarette perhaps,
the smoke curling like the years he lost,
burnt slow and steady, forgotten.
And then the thought, creeping slow—
it might be a while before his wife gave “any”,
if at all. She’d turn in the night, back cold as the check,
her affection rationed. A woman on the street, then—
easy, smiles for sale, no questions, just warmth.
The temptation a bitter pull,
the flicker of lust in an empty, lonely hour.
He’d waste it all, spend it all,
in bars and beds where sorrow takes its toll—
but maybe not. Not now. Not yet.
There was the rent, there was the food,
the week ahead like an open drain,
of dwindling time.
He stares once more at the check,
feels its weight,
a last meal, indeed—
and though the hunger gnaws,
he folds it,
places it neatly in his coat.
