The Weary Dime
So you’ve found me.
Among the dirt,
along the road.
Thought you’d never notice.
Don’t pick me up.
Don’t look at me.
I’m bruised.
I’m a mess.
Don’t see me.
In a pocket full of keys and coins I wait.
Waiting to be discarded…
Waiting to be given as a tip to some barista.
Others go in the clear box.
But I stay.
Why?
For I am but a two-thousand and eight coin.
Value does not rest beneath my layers.
I have no magik and no appeal.
But still I travel.
You take me aside and examine me.
The suffering of the bald tires across my face,
the pain of the child with pliers,
the shame of once proud symbols,
now barely recognizable.
I am naked and afraid.
Will you send me away?
Will you return me to the mint?
Have I lost all value?
With a warm hand,
you place me in a box.
One that I’ve never known could exist.
One filled with my brothers and sisters.
Look! There’s old man ’43,
Do you have memories to share?
Oh! A 1901, I shall listen to your wisdom.
And Mr. ’44, my stories must pale in comparison.
I know not, what I have to offer to thee.
But I offer it with all my heart,
and all I have left.
July 1st, 2011