Friction Rub

The pharmacy technician

dropped the change into my palm,

her index finger dragging

across the dry skin of my thumb.

I haven't been reached for in months.

The last time was the dental office,

hands encased in blue latex,

cold steel prodding at the gums.

The quarter has a sharp, serrated edge.

I press it into the meat of my hand

until the metal leaves a white moon,

holding onto that second of friction

all the way to the parking lot.