My bank decided they could trust me
with a credit limit of $1,000.
Me, the one who sort of paid her taxes today.
(I didn't read the last few pages of the online e-file instructions.)
Me, the one who whines when she is hungry, hot, or tired--
never mind all three, then I'm not even me, but a nasty creature,
a temperamental child, a force of nature that no one deserves to meet.
Yet: my bank trusts me with credit.
I eat lemon bars and bagels for breakfast,
drink wine and have chocolate chips for dinner,
order new contacts online in the middle of the night,
sleep with several stuffed animals.
Still: my bank trusts me with credit.