Paul Hostovsky




“I’m paying with cash,” he says,

“real money. Not plastic. Not 

numbers in a cloud. Real smackers

that you can hold in your hand

and smell. Like in the old days.

I miss the old days.” And he smacks

the crisp twenty in his hand, 

sniffs it, lays it on the counter

and smooths it with both hands.

She waits three beats, picks it up

and puts it in the register, tap-tapping

a roll of quarters against the drawer,

the real money spilling out in a clinking

cascade. She counts out his change,

presses it in his palm. “Hell,” she says,

“if you miss the old days, why not pay

with cowrie shells. Or better yet, a camel

or a cow. Livestock was the first money. 

And it smelled like money.”





Paul Hostovsky’s latest book of poems is Pitching for the Apostates (Kelsay, 2023). He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com