I hear the voice of a little girl.
She’s maybe nine years old.
I answer the door.
She walks in holding a clipboard.
Her father follows.
He knows me.
We do this every second Saturday of the month.
“Please sign,” she says authoritatively.
Her father makes his rounds.
“Thank you,” she says.
I hand her a dollar.
She adds it to the clipboard.
Her father exits the kitchen.
“I no use near food…” he says with regard.
Y escribi este poema.