A full-service organization

A full-service organization

Bob Hicok

I robbed a bank. Didn't mean to. 

 I'd deposited a check when the woman asked, 

 Is there anything else? She had a great smile. 

 It reminded me of a waxing moon. 

 I didn't want her to be a moon in vain, 

 so I said, I'll take all the money in your drawer. 

 She said, Of course. Then she said a funny thing. 

 Her head was down, she was looking at a stack of bills 

 in her hand, when she said, How would you like that? 

 Meaning tens or twenties. Hundreds or quarters. 

 And as soon as she said this, she stopped, 

 dropped her hands, smiled, looked at me, 

 shook her head and said, Duh. And something 

 opened between us. A sense of life 

 as renewable and surprising, 

 full of little errors that make us notice 

 we need and can give help. There's only one way 

 to want everything, she knew that 

 and was admitting her mistake. So I pointed out to her 

 that I didn't have a gun. She pointed out to me 

 that money is a knife we plunge into each other 

 over and over for no good reason. 

 If I'd have had a cord of wood 

 or even a few logs, I'd have built a fire 

 right there and talked to her 

 well into the night, but there was no tree 

 in sight. At the end, having handed me the money, 

 once more she asked, Is there anything else? 

 Yes, I said. I'd like to deposit this. 

 Checking or savings, she asked. 

 Given how far we'd come together, I admitted 

 I've never known how to answer that question, 

 if it's better to live for the moment 

 or look forward to a better time. 

 That's why I'm here, she said, 

 taking out a pencil and paper and dividing 

 the paper into two columns, one labeled 

The Sky Is Falling, the other, So Am I.