The coat’s in the donation bin now

The coat’s in the donation bin now.

I found it, lint-gummed,

a quarter I’d forgot about,

in the pocket.

Lincoln’s face worn smooth,

like a pebble from the sea.

Heads or tails, the old proof

of what I’m supposed to be.

This job offer sits heavy.

Do I jump, or do I wait?

Flipped it this morning, steady,

and the answer sealed my fate.

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe

it’s just metal, spinning free.

Still can’t shake this vague maybe

about what happens to me.