Diner Coin

This coat, it hung for months, a drape

of tweed, no particular shape

until I tried to clear its space.

My fingers found a flat trace

of something sewn inside the seam,

a small, forgotten, quiet dream.

A wooden nickel, worn and thin,

some diner's name etched in.

The 'O' in 'Ollie's' almost gone,

a ghost of coffee before dawn.

Who spent this token, what their want?

A pie, a smile, a brief, small jaunt

from home? I rub the smooth, hard wood,

a stranger's past misunderstood.

It smells of dust, and old goodbyes,

and questions in a stranger's eyes.