Circulation

I've been holding it for three days.

1957. Jefferson's face nearly worn away.

A nickel doesn't mean anything anymore.

But the year is printed so clearly

it seems like it should mean something.

The metal is lighter than I expected.

The date sharper than the man's face.

Sixty-seven years in circulation.

Through pockets and registers and

the spaces between couch cushions

where things go to be forgotten

and then, sometimes, found.

It's worthless.

It's survived longer than most people

who've touched it.

I keep it on the desk.

Not spending it.

Not keeping it in a box.

Just there.

Where I can see the year and think

about all the hands it's passed through,

all the people who didn't stop

to notice it was there.