Currency of Luck

The water is off for the season,

leaving the concrete basin cracked and dry.

There’s no poetic or spiritual reason

for why the fountain looks like an eye.

A pigeon is pecking at a nickel in the ice,

a silver disc frozen into a muddy floor.

It’s looking for bread or a grain of rice,

not a wish that someone isn't using anymore.

There’s a quarter down there, stained a sickly green,

trapped under a layer of rot and oak leaves.

It’s the saddest treasure I’ve ever seen,

the kind of luck that only deceives.

I wait for the bus and I pat my own pocket,

feeling the weight of the change in my palm.

The world is a socket without any light,

and the cold in the plaza is heavy and calm.