The woman lifts the white cotton
above her head,
clips it to the waxy and slack line
with tanned and tired hands. The motion
is automatic, like a small step
in a long dance.

Then, one clip
breaks in her hand: she frowns
at the broken pieces. Another.
Thirteen are left of thirty-five.

Arthritis beats at her joints,
small webs of space between her fingers.
Elven cotton t-shirts will pay
(she pauses to consider)
440 lek.
Enough to buy two loaves of bread and, maybe,
some meat.

The dry squeak and grate on the cobblestones
startles her:
she turns to see him wheel the makeshift cart
through the rickety gate.
It is only mid-afternoon, hours before
the people will make their daily pilgrimage
out lonely doors, across the square,
through the brown and dying park
and past her husband's car on the corner.
There they would stop, believe in their thirst,
and purchase his soda, his chocolate, perhaps even
his cigarettes. But not today.

He has quit, she thinks, and before she can catch it,
the thought has slipped away from her. Dangerous,
thoughts like that. Dangerous.
She lifts another shirt, remembers him
weeping for the money lost, vanished
like dust in the river. He sat then
as he sits now, head down in the sunlight,
and wept. What will we do?
On that day, she was the strong one.
We will survive. There are ways.

She clips the last T-shirt to the line,
forces herself to remember him
before the last collapse: his strength, his ingenuity. As each year brought a new hardship,
changes like a slap in the face,
he had met them with unwavering energy.
The old world gone, the new one not yet arrived,
he dodged the blows of despair
deftly,
and pulled her along with him. Hope was.
We will make it, he said to her.
We will live like kings and queens.

But as the pyramid scheme folded, she saw
him fold with it. He resigned himself
to the sundry cart, and came home
early. Still,
They would survive. On 440 lek
earned by washing white cotton shirts.

Enough to buy one loaf of bread
and some whiskey.
There are ways.