I’m shaking out my jeans for the wash

I’m shaking out my jeans for the wash

when something small and cold hits the floor.

It didn't make a clink, just a muffled squash

against the rug by the bedroom door.

It’s a penny, worn so smooth and thin

that Lincoln is just a ghost of a nose.

I don't know where it's lived or where it's been

or how many pockets have kept it close.

I pick it up and the smell hits me fast—

that sour, metallic tang of old copper

that tastes like the copper pipes of the past

or a handful of change for a shoplifter.

It’s worth nothing now, not even a thought,

but the smudge stays on my thumb like a stain.

You can’t even buy the time that you bought

with a pocket full of grit and a little bit of rain.