Truth: An Exercise Showing Details in Poem

Truth

Black liner frames a blue eye. Thick as molasses in July.

The bills roll in on white feathered wings. Black ink demanding labor paying.

“I’m fine,” I say to the cashier at Caribou. Tall latte with cinnamon sprinkles.

Red lips stained with Maybelline.

The bills stack in my purse and I’m paying.