The Bent Copper, Or, Small Change

It was just there, on the cracked slab,

between the gum and a broken stub

of a cigarette. Copper, dull,

bent slightly, like it had given up

on being round.

I picked it up. A habit.

One cent. Worth nothing, really,

not for a coffee, not even

to make a wish in a fountain

anymore, I guess.

The date was almost gone,

a smooth, featureless blur

under the grime.

How many hands had held it,

dropped it,

not even bothered to look down?

It sat in my palm,

heavy and light all at once.

A little piece of

nothing much.

And I just kept holding it.

Not knowing why.