Verdigris

The dryer is cold and the house is dark.

I’m reaching through the silver mesh

to find what the pockets dropped.

The metal is still a little fresh.

It’s just a penny, wide and flat.

It burned my thumb when I pulled it out.

The edges are turning a dusty green,

the color of a lingering doubt.

Lincoln is buried in the crust.

Copper turning into salt and lime.

It isn’t enough to keep the lights on,

but it’s what I have for the time.