Memoir Villanelle to a Wallet

How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?
You’ve opened economy’s gate for ten hefty years
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

Through winters and summers, through springs and falls
Holding cash for the Times or Rushdie, creamless coffee, so many beers
How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?

Bought by my grandmother in one of Cincinnati’s malls
You survived the washer’s cycle, my fat ass, the pickpockets’ leers
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

You were always ready for weekly ATM installs
The additions of credit cards, coins, receipts, bits of cheer
How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?

My grandmother knew what thoughts hemp recalls
The sturdy nature that surpassed your fibrous peers
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

Your back is ripped and tattered, your frame as weary as Saul’s
You’ve been through my nostalgia, an extra sense after eyes and ears
How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.


After ten years of its ever-withering, charmed life, I finally put my wallet to rest. It was too bulky here in the Czech Republic, where oftentimes you have to carry your wallet in your front pocket lest it be stolen. It was a thirteenth birthday present, and I snickered then because my grandmother bought me a hemp wallet (and she knew what hemp was!).

But it served me faithfully, and like a good pair of shoes you never think about a good wallet—it does its job so well it incorporates into your very life, your being. So, my old, now departed friend, I hope this villanelle does you some justice. I’d feel hard up if it didn’t.