Twenty-Five Cents

A shiny shimmer in the nick of the crack
between the bugs and grass
The glimce mimicking its fullish self in the corner of my eye
I pick it up
The ridged chrest on the tips of my fingers
The smooth surface on the round
In my pocket it can be found
I twirl it, it's flow, it's rhythm.
The sun passes up and down
I reach to find it safe and sound
Born in the year 1999
All the way from Georgia
I think of how it traveled far
What a life it's had to bar
And now and then it's gone again
On its journey, what it's witnessed in its time.
It slipped away from the fabric on my sweatshirt.
On the road again.

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