Give me your pennies
any day.
I stack them under my dimes.
"See, they're bigger!"
Worth so much more.
They smell like those days,
when my wife
asks me to till
the plot we have set aside
for gardening.
When earthworms slither for anctuary.
Days in late May and the rain
has stopped for a moment.
Pennies taste like oil
and dead skin cells.
Exotic pant pockets.
Women's pant suits.
The corners of purses.
The ones crusted over with a bit of goo
from a parking lot or trucking rest-stop floor or
gas station counter or
trick or treat bowl.
(And doesn't that just peeve your off? I mean
who just leaves a whole bowl of pennies?
I would totally dump the whole thing
in my Batman pillow case, but I'm
with my son, so...)
Those taste great.
I've heard some people,
stand-up, right-minded citizens,
call for the end of the penny.
Stop manufacturing them!
They are wasteful!
I say, "You're not real, man!"
When I see a penny on the groun, when I'm
walking into King Soopers, I never stoop to
pick it up...
anymore.
