The Softened Green

Got change today, a single buck,

so soft it felt like well-worn cloth.

No crispness left, just pure bad luck

for what it bought, or what it lost.

The ink, a faded green, almost gone,

Washington's chin, a ghost where a tear

might have fallen, or a thumb, long

worn smooth through years of fear.

Or hope. Or sweat. Or sticky hands

of kids who bought a penny treat.

This paper thin, through many lands

it traveled, on its little feet.

Just passed to me, this tired thing,

a silent record, barely there.

What tiny songs did it once sing?

What burden did it have to bear?