There was a hitch in my step for the last three miles

There was a hitch in my step for the last three miles,

a clicking in the rubber of my right shoe.

I walked past the shops and the pharmacy aisles,

wondering if my hip was finally coming through.

I sat on the curb and pried it out with a key,

a 1994 penny, wedged tight and deep.

It’s older than the person I used to be,

and a promise I was never intended to keep.

I held it in my palm until the smell turned sharp,

that metallic tang of copper and old sweat.

It’s a low, dull note on a rusted-out harp,

the kind of small debt that you always forget.

My fingertips are stained with a dull, brown grime

from carrying a thing that isn't worth a cent.

I’ve been dragging around this piece of time,

not knowing exactly where the value went.