I gave my sister 25 cents to buy a gumball.

Not much,

But more than was in the bodega’s empty soup can labeled “Tips.”

Her little crooked teeth and flaxen hair skipped out the door,

I apologetically waved goodbye to the sunken and weary shop owner.

Outside, the sun was setting over his children,

Pretending to be little, rich fresas,

Zealously waving pointed fingers,

Ordering each other around,

Between fits of bubbling laughter.

My sister stood waiting under a street lamp that had just flickered on,

With eagerly wiggling toes peeking out of her spotless white sandals.

Taking her hand, I led her back to the car,

Past the crumpled man sitting with his droopy dog,

Past the shop window repaired with wooden boards,

All the while her little eyes fixed on that shiny gumball.