Possum

                                    

                                          


                          
Even after the cost of renewing my poems, I was going home $2.15 ahead. The coins would go straight into a savings account at my local bank, otherwise known as the Mason Jar on That Shelf in My Kitchen. It was a good, honest bank that didn't make its money off shady investments and toxic whatsits, and didn't require a minimum balance or a monthly maintenance fee. Those were the perks. On the downside, it was not FDIC insured, and never gave out any lollipops.
                          
I arrived home just before dark to find an opossum digging through my compost pile, feasting on the half-fermented, gnatty apples I'd finally taken out of my hall closet. He probably couldn't believe his luck, that there was this whole pile of his favorite food lying around. You just don't see piles of free delicious food lying around unless there's an anvil tied overhead and a coyote hiding nearby. I bet a part of his little possum brain knew that, so he assumed the worst when he saw me watching him.
                          
He froze, and gave me a look of one constantly harassed (I won't say "badgered," as it's probably unfair to badgers. Better that I should say "one constantly capitalisted," as I've never been hassled by a badger in my life, while capitalists always have it in for me.)
                          
"Aw, geez . . ." the possum's long white face seemed to say. "This sure is awkward. I'll be moving along now. I don't want any trouble. I'm just a possum, see? Please don't tell me to get a job. I was just leaving."
                          
"It's okay," I said to the little possum-being. "There's plenty more where that came from."
                          
It took the opossum a moment to register my lack of attachment to rotten scraps. I thought I even saw him glance up for a split second, double-checking for a dangling anvil.