From The Double Poem by Morgan Michaels

Geronimo twisted with effort.

'There', he rasped, indicating the rug with his usable finger.

No question which- there was only one. It lay before an old sink with embarrassingly new spigots. It was gold and green and faded, but otherwise like any rug sold in any rural market. Colors from the earth had seeped into the weave.

'This one'? he asked, witlessly. He felt the need for clarification would make him seem dull- a quality useful in managing the old curmudgeon.

'Si', grunted Geronimo, impatiently. Miggi lifted the rug. It concealed a sheet of rusty roofer's tin.

'Underneath', prodded Geronimo.

Miggi slid away the tin. It covered a deep hole which contained a frayed, wicker basket. Inside the basket lay a soiled, velvet sack, the kind fancy silverware is kept in, secured by a knotted drawstring.

'Open it', commanded Geronimo.

Miggi applied himself to the knot, which yielded. He shook the contents free.

'Mira', said Geronimo, coughing. He then blew his nose on his sleeve.

Untwisting straight, he stared out the door, satisfied.

To Miggi's amazement, the bag contained over seven thousand dollars- mostly in twenties, some minted as long as fifty years back, by the dates on the face.. He whistled. In Cuba, that much Yankee money would buy way more than its equivalent in pesos. Some bills were old and greasy, some were newer; they were rubber-banded together by denomination. In addition, the bag held some thirteen or fourteen hundred Cuban pesos, worth (officially) less than the greenbacks.

'Dios mios', thought Miggi. But he felt the 'hole' business dumb.

Impressed by how much and how sadly little it was.....