clipping coupons

i'd see

him at the table

cutting

coupons from the morning

paper.

like a skilled barber,

he'd carefully clip each one out

with his

dull

black scissors from

a sewing kit,

pilfered

from a relationship

gone wrong.

he had money, that

wasn't the point.

he was a child

of the great depression,

a penny

saved

was a penny earned,

or some such nonsense.

i'd drive

him to the commissary

with an envelope 

bulging with

coupons for Ivory soap,

Cheerios and Barbasol

shaving cream.

into the cart went

Oscar Myer's bologna,

and Quaker Oats.

Debbie Cakes,

and Swanson tv dinners.

once home, he'd show

me the receipt

and display his savings

of three dollars

and twenty-seven cents

for six bags

of groceries.