YOU’RE THE LOOSE CHANGE IN MY POCKET
A Transition of Life
The loose change rattling in my pocket, ever jingling, ever morphing, inevitably slips through the unseen chink I must have neglected. I’ve metamorphosed in this season of yearning, the only fuel for my relentless train. Even as the snow sidles up my legs, it can’t derail the inevitable. So, I ask myself, what am I so petrified of? Could it be the nickel whispers riding the tails of my coat, or the dime’s deceptive murmurs suggesting everything won’t fall into place?
You dealt with me like the insignificant change an attendant hands over with a half-hearted hot dog. I barter my certainties for potential treasures, and in return, you gift me a heavier truth—a quarter, more tangible, weightier. Yet, paper money offers a solace, a sense of security that the rust-stained copper nickel can’t replicate. It’s the subtle narrative of texture: the solid, crumpled refuge of paper notes against the cold, relentless truth of metallic currency.
The loose change rattling in my pocket, ever jingling, ever morphing, inevitably slips through the unseen chink I must have neglected. I’ve metamorphosed in this season of yearning, the only fuel for my relentless train. Even as the snow sidles up my legs, it can’t derail the inevitable. So, I ask myself, what am I so petrified of? Could it be the nickel whispers riding the tails of my coat, or the dime’s deceptive murmurs suggesting everything won’t fall into place?
You dealt with me like the insignificant change an attendant hands over with a half-hearted hot dog. I barter my certainties for potential treasures, and in return, you gift me a heavier truth—a quarter, more tangible, weightier. Yet, paper money offers a solace, a sense of security that the rust-stained copper nickel can’t replicate. It’s the subtle narrative of texture: the solid, crumpled refuge of paper notes against the cold, relentless truth of metallic currency.