A Coin's Face

Found it in the cuff

of old denim, stiff with dust.

A nickel, green with time,

not silver. No gleam to trust.

Just a dull, gray moon

under my thumbnail, trying

to scrape the age away.

It only makes my finger sore, crying

out for a lost shine.

But some things aren't meant

to be new again. Just tough,

just a solid, bent

bit of history. Worn flat

where a thumb once rubbed,

or a pocket wore it down.

Still holds its shape, though.

Still counts for something,

I suppose.