Keep

I found the penny in my pocket,

my nephew gave it in the winter.

Keep this for luck, he said to me,

and I said thank you, though not meant to.

I was thinking of something else,

something I can't remember now.

For months I carried it without knowing,

my pocket worked it smooth somehow.

My hand polished a small shine

into the copper, day by day.

He wanted to give me something

that would matter, I might say.

But I kept it without meaning to,

carried it like it wasn't real,

said thank you while my mind

was somewhere else I couldn't feel.

Now I'm cleaning out my jacket

when the season turns to fall.

I find the penny stuck with lint,

this luck I carried all.

I put it back. The lint

will stick to it again.

My hand will keep polishing,

and I'll forget it's been

in my pocket this whole time,

this promise made in rhyme.