Cold Coin in My Palm

A nickel rests, dull and cheap,

worn edges blur beneath my skin.

The weight is stubborn, hard to keep,

a quiet anchor where hope had been.

Folded receipts crowd the lint—

small things collected, tossed aside.

But this cold coin won't relent,

a small weight I cannot hide.

Heavy for nothing, silver lean,

a cheap thing holding silent meaning.

Its dull glint catches dust and air,

a stubborn mark of taking care.