The History in Folding

The coffee shop gave it to me

with the change.

Soft. Almost cloth.

The creases worn through to white,

the green faded at the corners

where a thousand thumbs have pressed.

I held it up to the window.

The ink so thin I could almost see

the street through it.

This bill has been someone's last cigarette,

someone's bus fare,

someone's apology.

Now it's mine.

Now it's nothing.

The edges are starting to shred.

Soon it won't be worth

anything at all.

But it will still exist.

Just smaller.