Gravity's Choice

I’m tired of the pros and cons list

sitting on the kitchen table.

The ink is dry and nothing is solved.

I took a nickel out to the porch.

The air smells like wet cedar

and the neighbor’s dryer vent.

I let it fly, a silver blur

against the gray of the siding.

It didn't ring when it landed.

It hit the wood with a flat thud

and slid into the gap between the boards.

I’m still standing here,

waiting for the sound to tell me

which way I’m supposed to walk.