Sunken Costs

The water is gone and the basin is dry,

looking up at the cold of a November sky.

The man with the broom pushes sludge in a pile,

scraping the concrete for mile after mile.

I see a bright penny caught fast in the grate,

a small, copper face that was delivered too late.

All those wishes for money or lovers or luck,

just sitting in filth where the metal got stuck.