Lincoln

I found it on the street and picked it up,

old copper, worn almost smooth,

Lincoln's face a proof

that I still believe in luck's small cup.

The vending machine said no,

rejected the slot with a click,

and my habit felt sick—

this penny had nowhere to go.

I threw it in the trash,

watched it fall through the hole,

and something in my soul

understood that quiet crash.

The date is gone completely,

worn away by hands unknown,

carried in pockets, shown,

then discarded discreetly.

Still copper. Still worth nothing.

Still picked up anyway.

That's the price I pay—

keeping what's worthless, clutching.