Fifty-Fifty

Three of us sitting in the breakroom,

the clock humming like a bad tooth.

There’s one shift left for Saturday

and three of us behind on the electric.

George pulled a quarter from his pocket,

scratched and dull from a thousand hands.

It spun on the table, a silver blur,

catching the overhead light for a second

before it wobbled and died.

Miller caught it against his thumb,

the machine grease making a black half-moon

against the ridges of the copper.

Nobody said a word

until the coin decided who gets to stay in the dark.