I remember counting pennies
with the wrinkled hands of my grandfather,

gnawed fingernails and cracks full of antiseptic,

hands that had once held a gun steady now shake with effort

bronze circles of currency stacked in piles of ten,

ten fingers to wrap around a hot mug of coffee

black, four sugars, as milk has started to curdle in his age wrecked stomach

we count, we stack, we wait,
we laugh as the pounds pile up,

ten,

ten fingers to fret the instrument his protruding ribs have become

ten fingers to hold as the IV goes down

ten fingers to mould dough and break bread, like his wife did before she

stopped

ten fingers for doctors to tap on
blue, collapsed veins

ten seconds to share his strung out last breath

ten fingers, ten toes, keep moving