1987

It turned up in my coat pocket, no account

of when or where. Copper worn to that warm

brown of handled things. I held it out

under the desk lamp. The date: worn

but there. 1987. Green at the rim.

Thirty-seven years of other hands.

I'm not superstitious. On a whim

I stood there longer than the moment demands,

holding a year before I was. The lamp.

The counter. The kitchen going quiet.

I set it down. Made tea. The steam's soft damp

above the mug. The coin beside it.

All evening. 1987. The year.

The counter. The lamp. The coin. Still here.