Alms

Who knows what happened or why,
It wasn’t the Mortgage Lender
She only locked the interest rate,
It wasn’t the Banker
He only locked the safe,
It wasn’t the Sheriff
He only locked the door,

Escorted to the property’s edge,
The two of them stood looking
Just for a moment,
The dust from the sheriff’s car
Chasing after him down the country road,
Behind the old hedge tree
Were two packages,
Each took one and opened it,
Inside was a saffron yellow robe,
A medium sized Fiesta bowl
In their favorite color,
A cloth bag, each containing two books,
“I’m just mad about saffron,” She said,
Slinging the bag over her shoulder,
“Saffron’s mad about me,” He sang,
Walking slowly past the vineyard rows,
They turned to each other at the crossroads,
“Nirvana!”