In the grocery aisle,

he taps a can of beans he doesn’t eat

against a bottle of vitamins he doesn’t need, and listens.

When he’s sure they clank like a love letter,

he piles them into his cart.

.

I tell this friend that,

without money,

he is short one whole language &

by that I mean he makes a clear voice

from the clinks and folds

that drown out most of us.

.

The first time we eat out,

he tips the waiter twice

because she’s sad.

When she picks up the cash,

she breathes in like a sinking woman.

.

I think sometimes people need a poem,

of course—

but more often people

just need a little break.

.

I tell this friend that,

without money,

he is short one whole language &

by that I mean,

I hope that someone comes soon &

sets this voice on the table

so he can let out the scream

that doesn’t translate.