Nickel Weight

The meter clock was ticking down,

a hungry, red-rimmed eye.

My fingers dug through all the brown

and lint, beneath a summer sky.

Then found it, smooth and cold and gray,

a weight that fit the palm.

A nickel, worn from yesterday,

a tiny, silent, weathered psalm.

Jefferson's profile, almost gone,

his eye a blur, his cheek rubbed thin.

Just history, barely holding on,

where constant touch had worn him in.

Five cents, a faded, simple coin,

passed on and lost, then found again.

A quiet testament, a join

between the hands of countless men.