Washington's Face

I found it tucked deep in the lining of wool,

a scrap of the world that I thought I had lost.

It’s soft as a bandage and has the same pull,

a record of hands and the things that they cost.

The edges are frayed where the linen is thin,

and a crease runs right through the president’s eye.

I try to smooth out the places it’s been,

under the fluorescent white of the sky.

The vending machine spits it out with a whir,

rejecting the softness of paper and sweat.

It wants something crisper, something more sure,

not a dollar that’s heavy with everyone’s debt.