Folded wrinkled thin and worn

Folded, wrinkled, thin and worn,

a dollar bill from pockets torn.

The roughness clings beneath my skin,

a fibrous edge, a whispered din.

The creases tell of hurried hands,

street corners, deals that never stand.

The paper breathes a gritty sound,

where busy lives and edges bound.

It’s not the shine of plastic cold,

but wrinkles pressed in stories told,

a thin skin folded, creased and thin,

a touch that pulls the noise back in.