Limp Tender

I went digging for a light in my coat

and pulled out a wrinkled scrap.

It’s a tired, soft, and faded note

that survived the laundry’s trap.

It feels like a rag, or a piece of skin,

with the ink all bled and blurred.

Whatever value it used to win

is now just a muffled word.

I flattened it out on the counter top,

damp and ready to tear.

A currency that’s about to stop

carrying its own share.