Sometimes they are dropped like pennies
On the sidewalk to be
Received by handsome strangers,
An ongoing exchange exemplified
In the little clay bowls besides the tip jar, reading
Take one, leave one.
I've known a few collectors, mostly
Nosy old men who spend stifling afternoons on their groaning porches
Eyeing passersby with
Greed-glazed curiosity and a pair of bifocals, and
Once my brother filled a whole book with all
The state quarters.
Change is heavy and we’re
All afraid we’ll end up with lumpy pockets so heavy
Our pants fall around our ankles so we
Spend it away in vending machines
That carry Coke when we want Pepsi, machines
So full that they spit back quarters.
I know there is no protocol
For that machine that offers nothing, its
Empty coils glaring, winking behind ***** glass but
Your pockets are just so full.