Written by Jacob Ibrag

The sky above sang blue when she whispered

those three little words. ‘Where’s my money.’

‘It’s  coming’, I pleaded. She wasn’t having it

though, I might have as well been talking to the

wall. This was the world, and these were its rules.

Loans are meant to be paid, one way or another.

Word is bond, or it’s high interest rates till

death do I part. She screamed out ‘next’ through

the tiny holes in the Plexiglas. Hope is for those

who can afford it. You misunderstand me,

underestimate the look in my eyes. It was all

too premature Ms. Moneybags. I took out a

check  and smacked it against the glass.

My April fool, the joke is on you.

Artist Unknown

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