Loose Change in a Tight Fist

I counted the creases in worn bills—

they jangled like old bones in my pocket.

The clerk’s eyes cut through me,

sharp as the cold wind

snaking under my jacket’s frayed collar.

Each bill folded thin,

torn leather wallet barely holding its shape,

like the night was closing in on everything.

The shuttered ATM blinked dead,

and I knew the numbers weren't just math—

they were rooftops or empty skies.

I pressed those bills

until the edges cracked,

clinging to the noise they made—

coins that rattle but don’t settle,

a soundtrack for not enough,

a rhythm that won’t stop.