Five Cents

The coat in the closet is heavy and long,

smelling of cedar and things that went wrong.

I reached in the pocket and felt something cold,

a small, circular secret that’s ten years old.

A nickel with scratches across the man’s face,

lost in the lining and taking up space.

It smells like a toolbox, like grease and like oil,

the kind of deep scent that the years cannot spoil.

My father’s old jacket is shedding its thread,

and the metal feels heavy, like a piece of lead.

I rub the dull edge 'til my fingers turn gray,

staring at the date while the light fades away.