Klara approached, “Dad, I need money!”
“Maybe tomorrow.” “Now! For books!”
I rummaged again through my wallet,
“Sorry.” She looked incredulous:
“Not a dime? You’ve got to be joking!”
and she started to laugh out loud,
“I need books and pens — how could you not?”
“I just don’t have it,” I avowed.
Her eyes lit up, suddenly. “Well, then,
there must be some in Mommy’s purse!”
But her billfold also was empty:
“This is an unexpected curse,”
said the little girl indignantly,
and where she’d seen money before,
without luck she searched in every nook
and she pulled out every last draw’r.
“Really, nothing,” she whispered at last,
then broke out, her grievance released:
“A proper household should always have
twenty dollars, or so, at least!”
“Twenty dollars … sure,” I said, amused,
and she continued: “Certainly,
we aren’t poor, after all, are we!”
Repeating this, incessantly,
then, grew silent — perhaps this isn’t
a proper household, she surmised,
and sorrow in her eyes was eclipsed
by an overwhelming surprise.