Currency Exchange

The mall fountain is dry, the pump finally dead,

leaving a floor of gray slime and industrial tile.

A man in rubber boots, with a shaved head,

scoops up the copper and silver into a pile.

I saw a penny stuck to the tread of his shoe,

a wet, green wish that didn't get very far.

Most people want a version of life that is new,

but they trade it for metal and a drink at the bar.

He doesn't look at the dates or the faces of kings.

He just wants the sludge out before the next shift.

It’s a heavy collection of useless, circular things

that nobody intended to give as a gift.