See A Penny, Pick It Up

The coffee is good, the day coming up
is good, the clothing I’ve chosen to wear,
the anticipation for breakfast: all good.
I’m good myself with nothing beyond
the usual halt in my step and the coldness
of my hands and the space in my head
where memory used to sit and hold court.
I’m pretty good, actually. I’m damned OK
with how I am, just dandy with what I am
now. Granted that there’s a difference
between my past and my present; after all
I disremember the old days. They’re a blank.
There is a sort of cloud between me and the memory
of them. They are blocked out with only a piece
showing up now and then like a coin dropped
in a fountain or more appropriate to the experience,
like a coin left on a railroad track to flatten.
Ever notice how warm the pennies were after the train
passed? I liked that warmth. I remember it,
I think; it’s a blur, though. Do I recall it
or am I making it up? It doesn’t matter,
I guess. The day coming up
is good anyway; the clothes I’m wearing
are the same as yesterday’s, and there is
an unimportant coffee stain on the left sleeve
where I think I spilled yesterday. It doesn’t
matter what I did or didn’t do then.
I will likely do it again at some point.
See a penny, pick it up; put it in
your pocket; forget why you put it there;
lay in on the track to get ruined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T