Pocket Change

It tumbled out with the dryer lint,

a single nickel, dull and gray.

Jefferson's profile, a faint print,

worn smooth by some forgotten day.

I rolled it in my palm, quite cold,

the milled edge rough against my skin.

A story no one ever told,

of where it's been, or what it's seen.

Just a small, heavy piece of fact.

Worthless, almost, on its own.

Another tiny, broken pact.

A memory, half-known.