“There is no aphrodisiac like innocence”
― Jean Baudrillard

Two 20 (dollar) bills 

Were set parallel 

On Tay’s dresser. 

“I can’t tell.” He said, grabbing and 

Escorting a buck to his desk lamp.

He held it before a light-beam. 

The money functioned like a lens cover, 

Casting a mossy green spot-light

Across the room, ending inside a corner. 

“What’s the watermark suppose ta’ look like?”

Tay’s forearms and hands tunneled the glow 

In shadow. “Beats me.” I said, shrugging my shoulders. 

“You’re the expert.” 

“I had assistance, though.”

Tay said. 

“It’s easier to make a fake 

When you have help.” 

I grabbed the other dollar,

Folded it and rubbed the halves

Together. “What does that do?” Tay asked.

“Saw it in a movie. Real money has like, uh, like

A grainy feel to it.”

“That doesn’t sound real.” Tay said. 

“Yeah?” I replied. “Neither does counterfeiting.

I mean…we’re talking FBI, federal-crime-shit here.”

Voices from strangers escaped the hallway

And infiltrated Tay’s apartment. 

Phonics stripped the dialogue of word comprehension,

Presenting, instead, tonal changes resembling aggression.

High pitched inflections met a guttural melody that was punctuated 

With a door slam and then silence as if not understanding was normal. 

“I guess…if we can’t tell…that’s a good sign.” I said. 

“I vote we spend some and see if it works.” Tay proposed. 

“Democracy at its finest.” I said. 

We pocketed the money, gathered our phones and keys 

And left the apartment. We spent the walk to the gas station

Discussing what we’d buy. “I think I’ll buy cigarettes.” 

Tay concluded. “I can’t think of anything else worth the felony.”