pocket change

What was a quarter then?
a nickel and a couple of dimes
             a heavy hand full of pennies
         hitting together to sound
  like double
            bubble rolling
down a glassy
                       grimey chute.


What was a dollar then?
 four quarters or the
                               paper prince
            flag of royalty
                               handed over on my own
with sticky fingers
for the double scoop of chocolate
                               and rainbow sherbet.


a quarter is 12 minutes on the meter
across from the 7/11 where
six dollars will buy a
pack of cigarettes and
the free packet of
cardboard matches.


a block down, coffee with soy
is
four
        seventy
                      five.
drink it because
it tastes expensive
drink it because
it is expensive


Pocket change wanted
                            the potential of bright
                                                      wide eyes
two-hands to hold it all, all
the coins, all
itty bitty promises the
clinking made while
I walked.


Pocket change sounds
           cheap now
 takes up space in my twenty-thousand penny purse.


Sticky fingers hand over dollars
aren't sticky from candy anymore-
sticky fingers and single dollars
                       mean so much more.
                      
I find a five on the floor and it is a single shot of the cheap stuff at the dive bar on my way home from work.
Lincoln holds no glamour to the dulled
                                                          swollen eyes
drop him in my twenty-thousand penny purse
and wonder if the
                       corner-girl, sparkle heels and
                                             greying teeth,
                      takes plastic.

Sailor's Sunday

short autumn sunlight
leaves time before night
only long enough
to tell a single drink
with the saddest story
on the rocks –
The garden beneath her windows is dying.
The flowers beneath her willow are dying.
Above her small house, an old flag is flying.

 left, west, sunset—when it’s red
puts sailors to bed
good dreams,
of wives’ lives, always
all ways white
in light
yellowed sunrise;

when the quiet hits the deck
when the quiet hits the men
when there is just the deck
and the men
and the sky
and the sea

they hit the quiet and
make up
memories
to pass time until sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise.


That land is
the wrong land.


Ladies ashore—at
home, dream at the silky
black
bring him back
 and the children in their
waiting room sheets,
sleep nicely
concisely
precisely, and
make up
bad dreams
to pass time until sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
sunset.




Papa smoked nice cigars and whistled
while he worked.

No heroes.
No villains.
Just the deck and the
men and the sky
and the
sea.

Always the sink
and the sorrow
and the crash at that
time-passaged dawn
of tomorrow,
far out at waves
was nighttime storm
grown to be
a morning glory—
the kind that washes away story
and song.


No heroes.
No villains.
Just a wife at home
and a child and nightmares
and the sky
and the
sea.

Wives’ lives at home, baking
last of the bread
last of the milk to
soften last of the bread –

 dear husband’s dead.

She’s whistling while
she works, can't
remember his
old tunes and
making up
melodies
to pass time until –