Fifty-Fifty

The dryer is spinning its humid, heavy heat

while I stand on the linoleum in my socks.

I can't decide if I should stay and wait

or walk to the corner and leave it to the locks.

I pulled a 1994 quarter from my pocket,

a thin bit of silver to carry the blame.

I let it fly up toward the buzzing tube light

and watched it come down to settle the game.

It hit the floor and wobbled on its edge,

a blurred silver circle before it fell flat.

I didn't even look to see which side won;

the sound of it falling was enough of a chat.