The fountain is a hollow concrete throat

The fountain is a hollow concrete throat

now that they’ve pulled the plug for the frost.

Two men in rubber boots are shoveling the muck,

their spades scraping against the tiles.

The wishes are just a pile of wet copper

and gray, sodden leaves.

I see one penny wedged deep in the grout,

its face turned to a thick, mossy green.

It’s been down there under the weight of the spray

while we all walked past,

believing in the splash.