The Twenty-Dollar Itch

I found a twenty in a pocket seam,

forgotten since the winter turned to spring.

It didn't feel like a lucky dream,

it felt like a sharp and metallic thing.

That taste hits the back of the throat again,

the one that comes before the choice is made.

I’m thinking of numbers and older men

and the way a life can start to fade.

I can almost smell the lighter’s flint,

a ghost of a spark in a hallway gloom.

I’m looking for any kind of hint

that I won't end up back in that room.