Five Cents Short

The cup holder was a graveyard of grit

and half-melted mints in the plastic tray.

I dug for a coin that might actually fit

and drive the damp smell of the laundry away.

It slipped from my thumb and hit the tile,

rolling fast toward the back of the room.

It settled beneath a machine for a while

in the lint and the heat and the chemical gloom.

A tarnished nickel wedged tight by the rust

of a leveling leg that hasn't been turned.

I'm leaving it there in the grease and the dust

with the smell of a motor that's finally burned.