I was raised by the many ghosts of the great depression.
The did not haunt the house, but haunted my parents.

The ghosts remained dormant until money became a topic.
The ghosts lived in my dad’s wallet and inside two checkbooks.

The ghosts did not follow the family into Sunday church
where father managed to liberate a fiver for the collection plate.

The ghosts preferred to crowd the bank
and change the expressions on the bank clerks’ faces.

The bank clerks’ new expressions were akin to recognizing
John Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde.

My father looked nothing like Clyde Chestnut Barrow.
My mother had Bonnie Elizabeth Parker’s lithe stance.

copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney

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