Things We Throw

She dropped a quarter in the pool

like it was something she could throw away—

no pause, no prayer, no rule,

just done, and turned away.

I sat on the marble edge,

fifteen minutes until my name

would come. I watched the ledge

of light catch it in the same

instant twice, a gold

flicker, then it fell

past all the coins—silver, old—

into the water's swell.

She never turned to look.

She'd moved on already. Gone.

I wonder what she wouldn't book,

what wish she'd written off as done.