The Invisible Hand
Oct 29 2009


Loose change
weighs down my pockets
jingles as I walk
glitters on the pavement,
not worth stopping.

At the end of the month
it litters the dresser-top —
slag heaps of copper,
small silver stepping-stones,
islands of gold.

A tall glass bottle
of coins,
waiting to be rolled.
Lugged to the bank, or thrift
where a real live teller
will roll her eyes, thin her lips,
corral then through the wicket
issue a deposit slip.

Then light as a kid who’s skipped
Latin, or calculus,
it’s a quick trip to the corner store,
where I break a 20 for silver.
And on my way
slip spare change
into a busker’s open case.

I am a patron of the arts
a generous man,
who finds time to stop, and listen
to a street musician
play for petty cash —
Bach’s Cello Suite,
free for all who pass.