Parity

The dollar bill is a rag of lint.

The machine won't take it, no matter how much

I smooth it against the glass or the metal edge.

I am down to a single quarter and a choice.

I don't want to decide if I'm hungry or lonely.

I let the silver fly off the pad of my thumb,

not looking for a face or a bird,

just wanting the air to take the weight.

It hits the floor and does a frantic dance,

a rattling circle toward the storm drain grate.

It drops through the iron bars without a sound.

I stand in the lobby with nothing to say

to the dark glass and the rows of salt.