Ninety-Nine Cents Short

The woman in the lab coat is calling a name,

and the fluorescent lights are humming a tune.

I’m looking down at the scuffed linoleum

where a penny is trapped in a corner of dust.

A man in heavy work boots shuffles past,

and the rubber sole drags the copper an inch,

pushing it further into the dark under the counter.

It’s covered in a dull, brownish grime,

the kind of filth that makes people look away.

Nobody is going to bend down to save it.

It isn't enough to pay for the pills or the time,

just a small, flat weight that failed to be a dollar,

getting stepped on until it’s part of the floor.