Spare Change

The loose change
sits everywhere.
Fallen from pockets,
dropped out of hand,
displaced coins that
rattle to the ground,
caught between
cushions and seats, stuck
sideway in the car, too
tight to rescue.
The dull shine of nickels
quarters, dimes and not
a single green slice
of papered cash to be
found. They spin
noisily in the dryer,
metal against metal
with no way out.
They lie on the floor,
or sidewalk, the streets.
Vagrants don't even bother.
No one bends over to pick
them up, disregarding
good fortune, ignoring
the slightest chance
at luck. I see the same
sad group of Lincoln
faced pennies everyday.
In a heap, the hat, the silly
beard, the weak copper
sheen that says, leave me
alone. If they could somehow
group themselves
together into a Kennedy
half dollar I'd be happy.
They'd be happy.
But they have no
leadership, no collective
skills to speak of, and so
they sit with no where
to go, no place to really be.