One Cent

The wind, a sharp blade,

sliced my cheek,

walking home, head down

like a bent reed.

Pavement cracked and wet,

a map of small disasters.

Then copper caught my eye,

a dull glint, a simple find.

By the storm drain's mouth,

where the street grays,

it lay, a worn-out thing,

from a different day.

I picked it up, its face was flat,

a Lincoln grim, where he once sat.

A date, '87, almost gone,

a grimy edge, a silent pawn.

No luck it brings, no sudden sway,

just copper dirt, and yesterday.

My cold thumb rubs, it offers naught,

a small, forgotten, penny thought.