Once, in Flint, a woman washed her baby in a thin tin tub. She scrubbed and scrubbed and washed and washed and the baby squealed because he was happy. The mother cried because she was sad. They'd lost their money in a mutual fund. The father ran off with the Milkman and took the Pinto too. The house was devoured by scarabs. The septic tank exploded and the pilot light turned pink. All the woman had left were twelve cans of lima bean soup, thirteen votive candles, three bars of soap, and an old tin tub for the bathing of babies. The mother wept and her tears fell in the tub and mingled with the suds. The baby knew nothing of this. He giggled in his sacred joy and sacred contentment and his sacred happiness rose to heaven as a sacred prayer and the Sacred Powers had compassion. Then the mother had a lot of money.
Most dollar bills bear traces of blood and cocaine.