Limp Tender

It’s been through too many pockets and palms,

sanded down to a soft, fibrous gray.

It’s lost all its crispness, its federal calms,

just a rag that won't go away.

I try to snap it, to make it sound true,

but it sags over my thumb like a leaf.

It’s a tired green ghost passing through,

carrying a century of grease and grief.

There is no starch left in the George on the face,

just the smell of copper and old, denim lint.

It’s a record of every low-rent place

that didn't care about the mint.