Copper and Nickel My words scatter on the supermarket floor:
dropped change, pennies and dimes
I can't spend but can't hold onto.
You fidget in the checkout line,
debit card out. Tapping your foot,
you wait for the cashier to ring up the total.
I watch you tick off every purchase
the peanut butter, the Cream of Wheat
divvying up what's yours and what's mine.
You get the eggs. I get the corkscrew.
You get the flour. I get the wine.
"You owe me 40 dollars," you say.
The fluorescents buzz. I barely hear you.
You head for the door without glancing back.
I gather my words, both copper and nickel,
and wonder why these days
I buy my own