There is a penny in my pocket,
I squeeze it between my rough
and delicate fingers,
I feel the ridges on Abe’s copper face,
What a long face he has,
I pull the penny and place it on my chipped thumb nail, jettisoning it into the air,
The penny lands back into my right hand,
I quickly flip the small metal coin
onto the back of my left weathered hand,
“heads I use it and tails I keep it”
I say to myself, It’s tails, I keep it,
I dig back into my pocket for more change,
A nickel, a quarter maybe,
Too big to be a dime, it’s a quarter,
on one side George Washington
and the other an iron eagle,
Oh, how I wish to clutch
the emblem of peace like
the noble bird on the back,
ease my mind a little,
but I clutch this quarter instead,
I place George back into my pocket with the other forefathers, and I pull out
a folded bill instead,
Shock and surprise comes to my face
as I see Thomas Jefferson,
I flip him in between my knuckles,
watch his pursed lips and pensive eyebrows dance between my arthritic fingers,
No, this is for emergencies,
I bend down to tuck the bill
into my dirt ladened sock for later,
I lay down a faceless plastic credit card
on the counter and slide it to the cashier,
She cavalierly pried it from
under my cold finger tips,
I leave the fluorescent lighted store
with a sloshing gallon of milk in my bag, Milk cost more this week than last,
I paid for it by a creditor
who likes to keep me shackled to my debt,
I shrug and sigh and dig
into my pocket again for my keys,
I find the penny instead,
I run my fingers across the etched emblem,
I give it a squeeze and remember
that the first patriots were
squeezed tightly too,
So tight they couldn’t breathe,
Only milk was tea and I became we,
“We the People” who stood up,
against tyranny,
To make a more perfect union,
To only have the United States divided
and our freedoms shrinking smaller
than the penny in my hand,
Maybe the luck of the penny is not the price it fetches which is almost obsolete,
Almost considered a relic, almost antiquated and placed behind a museum glass for people to gawk and wonder how someone could use something so tactile and small for currency,
Maybe the luck of the penny is
the courage it takes to endure
despite its shrinking worth,
Against all odds, to remember our roots,
Hear the echoes of our ancestors who
fought for our freedom,
It’s just money, but we see evil people
wield its power everyday,
and good people know it’s worth
because they can feel it in their pocket,
They know it’s heft, know when it’s missing,
know what it’s like to be
crushed by the emptiness of their pocket,
Know the gratitude of generosity
as they give to those who need
their penny more than them,
They know how important it is
for a symbol to endure.
~ By Hyacinth Hale
Hyacinth Hale Poetry 