Pocket Change

Pocket Change


A quarter,
A dime,
A penny.

Sometimes they think,
Of myself as these,
But why?
You see.

A man’s terminology.
She’s a quarter,
A dime,
A penny.
A symbol of status?
To whom?

To them,
Certainly not me,
I’m that rare one,
They want to hold in,
Their pocket.
Never to be spent,
Never to be spoiled.
But why?

And then spend,
All the regulars,
Not that I’m regular.
Cause I am not,
Side Change.
Never have been.

It just irks me,
You see,
To be a picture of,
Perfection, but treated
As infection,
The plague.

Always second,
To work,
To the game,
To friends.
Never first,
Begged,
Borrowed,
Stealed me,
To be part of your sentence.

But that’s all I was,
Just part of your sentence.

I never existed,
Between the lines,
Inside the lines,
Around the lines.
Why?

Could I be,
A period,
A comma,
An Exclamation point?

Instead of just,
A quarter,
A dime,
A penny,
And at times,
Just Half Pence.

What is that about?
Begged,
Borrowed,
Stolen.

Once again,
I have to keep it,
In,
And wait,
For ex-change.

A process,
I’ll rapidly expedite,
As I am not satisfied,
In this pocket,
With these damn lint balls,
This butt sweaty wallet,
The old gum wrapper, or
Some other chick’s number.
Nope not me.