The Worth

My kid asked why I keep it—

just one penny. I can't reap it,

can't explain the reason.

They asked if, in this season,

it was worth anything at all.

I looked at the small

coin. Lincoln's face

worn smooth. No trace

of value. Nothing. A penny

is worth not many

cents. You don't pick them up.

You don't fill your cup

with pennies. So why

do I carry it? I can't reply

with a story. No lucky day.

No reason. No way

to justify the habit.

Just a worthless habit.

A small thing I won't

let go of. Though I won't

explain it to my kid.

Just this: all I've hid

of value comes down

to what's worthless. The crown

of my inheritance is this:

hold the nothing. Kiss

the void. Carry

what means nothing. Marry

yourself to worthless things.