Abstraction

The ATM alone is enough to set me off.
The angle of the screen is designed to exclude me,
I give away crucial numbers with a sweep of my hand.

I stand with my forehead pressed against the top
where the long list of colourful jigsaw logos brag
freedom! accessibility! I wonder whose skin

has left a calling card of grease.
Perhaps it was inadvertently mine.
The lines of cash only, balance enquiry

never match up to buttons that dictate
an abstract nature of wealth. I'm not designed for this.
I stare blankly each time at the numbers and think

what would happen if I wiped the lot
to zero, cut and run, took my money home and counted it
out in fives and tens; but I know. I'd take it back

to my bank in an enveloped wad, thick as my sweaty fist.