Worn

The penny under the radiator

is so worn I can't tell

what year. The date

has been rubbed away.

Just copper faded to brown,

light as almost nothing.

This is what happens

when something gets old enough.

It loses its proof.

It becomes a thing

that could be anything,

that doesn't stand

for anything anymore.

I should throw it away.

That's what you do

with things that are done

being useful. That's what

the world does with people too—

rubs them smooth until

you can't read the year,

until you don't know

what you were meant to matter.

But I put it on my dresser

next to the card with my name in it.

Two things that have stopped

meaning anything.

Two things still here anyway,

taking up space,

refusing to disappear

even though nobody knows

what they're supposed to be.