A lackluster errand to the bank
(located inside the grocery store)
seems tedious as I sit in the driver’s seat
of my compact car with three
antsy girls who unbuckle themselves,
scratch the back dash,
bang on the window
as I count quarters that have
spilled out of their paper sleeve
(I lost $1.50 in the depths
of Hyundai oblivion)

They are seven, five, three,
and don’t attempt to contain
the excitement that bursts at
the thought of what is to come:
a free kid’s cookie for each,
a slice of orange meant to entice
paying customers (that they will
suck the juice from and abandon),
and the pennies they’ve discovered
(in their search for quarters) that
will pay for six rides on the horse.

They take turns, maneuvering from
tail to saddle to head to leg,
the shiny plastic horse never
moaning under their ample weight,
and every time another penny is inserted,
a new wave of thrilled screams erupts,
making this six-cent endeavor (this
tedious, hideous errand) worth more to me
(to them) than a million dollars that
I will never have to count (or spend)
to bring them happiness.