Savings

You keep asking me where my rainy day fund is.
I don’t remember the last time the sun came out
and where I’m standing it’s been pouring for years.
You ask me about my rainy day fund
now, because the power has shifted
out of your hands and into those of a
Thing that kills — get this — not just poor people.
You ask me now, when my contributions to you
hang precariously in the balance.
My death means less than my consumption
still — my purchases worth more than the food,
the medicine in my shopping cart.
It is so strange to stare into the eyes of a cashier
both of us waist deep,
both of us without umbrellas,
our clothes clinging to our bodies
and our bones bared to the wet cold.
Steeped in want —
we see you start at one drop on your face,
and beg us to save you from drowning.