Circulation

The machine won't take the pay,

it spits the paper back away.

The edges are soft, a velvet fuzz,

losing the shape of what it was.

It’s been folded into a tiny square,

hidden in shoes and handled with care.

The ink is pale, the green is thin,

like a tired piece of winter skin.

I smooth it out against my knee,

trying to fix the history

of every hand that held it tight

and spent it in the middle of the night.