Small Change

The machine hums a low, angry note.

It wants a crisp edge

but all I have is this scrap

that’s been through the rinse cycle

in the pocket of my work slacks.

It feels like a bandage

or a piece of a used-up shirt.

Soft and fuzzy at the corners

where the ink has gone tired.

I try to iron it flat

with the side of my thumb

against the cold plastic.

It goes in halfway,

hesitates,

and shudders back out.