Spare Change
We get what we can take
A prose poem.
Last night I watched a man pay for his packs of Coca-Cola with a bag of spare change.
His toothless frown — emboldened by the wrinkles encasing his face. Well-worn and overdue for relief, his slack mouth reminded me of this remarkable feat — the one we call living.
I thought about then and now and how things haven’t quite turned out as we hoped. Decades of war for freedom’s sake — store-bought debt and lasting regret. Disease unbridled — millions of lives lost — unrivaled arrogance — few questions of the cost.
In some ways, we’re all digging through bags of spare nickels and dimes–trying to afford the charade of getting by. To appear less susceptible to the collective plight, more suitable for the final fight — less vulnerable to the impending fall, more resilient — a little more gall.
Waiting for Persephone to birth us back to spring, we dwell in an endless winter, wondering when things will change.
When will we have not more than, but enough — the tides of freedom, washing over all. The light of justice shining in every hall. Perhaps we’re on the way, but seeing that is tough — I’d bet you this bag of pennies we aren’t close enough.
