by Dean J Bachmann
Friday, January 23, 2004
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Every day I come home,
spill coins on the countertop.
out of the mines of Commerce.
Gobbets from Grendle, the quarters,
devoured in threes and fours
by the laundry machine.
Nickles are thicker.
Harder to get rid of but handy with the vagrants.
You imagine they might think them quarters.
Dimes slide right through creases in my palm,
into the hungry idiot mouths of the parking meters.
The copperheads coil endlessly.
Pockets, car, ashtrays and drawers.
Rattling snakes in the vaccum.
I leave trails of them in parking lots,
will put them back into the bowels of Commerce.