Five Cents of Weight

I fumbled the change at the counter today,

reaching for gum and a bit of relief.

A coin hit the concrete and skittered away

with a sound that was sudden and sharp and brief.

I bent down to find it, a 1998

piece of hard nickel, all tarnished and gray.

It’s survived every pocket and turn of my fate

while I’m the one starting to crumble and fray.

Jefferson’s face is a rubbed-away blur,

scratched by the keys and the grit of the road.

It doesn't feel tired, or lost, or unsure,

it just carries the weight of its own heavy load.