the first time

how fondly
you remember your first
credit card.
filling out the form.
your income of
four thousand dollars that
year
doing odd jobs,
shoveling snow,
mowing lawns.
washing dishes
in a local restaurant.
still living with your mom,
despite her
insistence that you move
on with your life
at sixteen.
how proud you were to make
your first charge
at Montgomery wards.
a sweater,
a belt.
a pair of white keds,
a multicolored head band.
you paid it all off in three
monthly payments
of eleven dollars.
you still have the card.
it's brittle now.
chewed at the edges from
overuse.
stained with dirt and grime
of decades gone by.
the store is long gone.
it was your first.
you always remember fondly,
your first.