Copper Scuff

I stopped by the chain-link fence

because the world had started to click.

Every step had a metallic hitch, a lack of sense,

like a clock with a gear that was too thick.

I sat on a concrete pylon in the rain

and turned the boot toward the gray light.

There, wedged in the rubber like a stubborn stain,

was a face I hadn't seen in a fortnight.

I used my house key to pry at the rim,

scraping the grit from Lincoln’s worn-down jaw.

The copper was smeared, the details gone dim,

sanded away by the street’s indifferent law.

It’s not even worth the effort to lean down,

yet I dug it out and held it in my palm.

One cent for a walk across this dying town,

a small, hard piece of a sudden, heavy calm.