If I Had a Penny for Every Time I’ve Been Called Mean.

I’d slump my way to a penny arcade

like an old gambler at the breakfast shift in Vegas.

Bag full of copper, gut overflowing with the

bubble front bloat of my period panties,

doubled over at the waist, sticking my face right up against the glass

as the small silver ball

pinged from left to right inside.

I wouldn’t play just one penny at a time

there’s no need for restraint

when your cup runneth over.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve been called mean

I’d chew on Nicorette while rolling loosies on the counter top,

sticky with old soda and candy-coated, too-small fingerprints.

Not because I need the hit

but because my monumental meanness

is something I can smoke,

something that closes my airways and stains my teeth.

I also look cool while doing it.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve been called mean

I’d call the neighbor’s kids over to my machine

COME ON OVER KIDDOS

my voice like gravel on ice

my hands slapping the sides of the box

urging the ball to get in the hole.

I’d create a scene just to get a little satisfaction

just to teach you a lesson

in how it’s done.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve been called mean

I’d play that stupid game until I was kicked out

fingers burned raw, lips dry with someone else’s stale air

children gone home to their families

to tuck themselves into bed.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve been called mean

a teenage boy outside would yell

MEAN OLD HAG

just as I was heading to my car, hitching up my panties

and spitting something black on the sidewalk.

I’d spend one minute looking at him

as a metal ball pinged around my brain

knowing that with a handful of rust and a gracious grin

I could get him inside for a match.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve been called mean

I’d let him win.

I’d tell him he was so beautiful when he told me

how to do it just like him

and I’d ask him to explain what he means

when he says that being silent is the

same as being nice.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve been called mean

I’d pour them out at his feet.

I’d tell him there’s no winning when the game’s been rigged.

I’d watch while he scooped them up

and handed each one back to me,

our hands full of dirty old men.

If I had a penny for every time he’s said

here are your pennies

you mean bitch

I’d crawl back to the car

weighed down with more than I’d come with

content in the knowledge that I beat the house

drunk with the richness

that meanness can bring.