They Call to Him

He spots their roundness yards away.
Whatever else he sees, I cannot say
but anyway, his gift dismays me.
He sees cold hard cash. He is one with them.
Yes. He detects coinage in all
their calibrated hiding places,
playing peek-a-boo in the grasses,
sleeping along the edge of the road, nestled
amongst the fallen leaves,
peeping from the concrete lip
of the sidewalk as we stroll hand in hand.
He sees each and every one.
They call to him, ringing out their round sound.
Summoning, beckoning--exclaiming their presence. Pick me!
Pick me! They shout to him.
As a homing pigeon, he spies their curvature
of green or darkest brown,
the coins not one other person has found.
They signal and he hears their ballooned sphere,
hollow and muted, yet distinctively there.
He picks them up, caresses their continuity
.and gives them all to me.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem

This Poems Story

My husband finds money wherever we go. Nearly everyday he places a penny, dime or other coin in front of me. Sometimes there is only one penny, other days even twenty-five or more cents worth of coins are displayed. "They called to me," he smiles in explanation. We can walk the same streets, the same parking lots and hallways and he will find the coins others do not. When our two youngest daughters took walks with us around the neighborhood, my husband would instruct them to look for pennies. Often, the girls would spy coins and delightedly exlaim over their find. Little did they know that their dad was dropping pennies from his pocket so they would be sure to come home with their "coinage."