Palm to Pay

Palm to Pay

Deemed nigh neanderthal to dig 

into a purse or pocket for the plastic

long since replacing the paper

so clumsy to unclamp and then—by all 

accounts—to count, now the red line

reads like an oracle the pathways  

of our palms, foretelling not a future

but a number unlocking the numbers

to our name. We file through 

with our bags all the same, each

feigning awe at this newest

audacity, like so many deferring fathers

who never dared a word to the boy

in the house whispering words

to his daughter, but who were certain,

come Monday, to big-mouth about

the sheer disrespect of stepping

into the living room to find

that tousled head canoodling

with his princess on the lazy chair,

bare feet kicked up on the table

which didn't feel the need to jump a bit

at being caught in the act

of defiling his very flesh.