Change

by Matthew Chronister

— For pennies

Grandma would tell us stories. You,
pure copper then, heavy in hand,
could buy the paper from the stand,
and hard candy, at least a few

pieces of gum. Once stamped with wheat,
your red-orange coat replaced by steel
and forged to bullets meant to kill.
If someone walking down the street

were to find you lying on the curb,
they’d stop on a dime to pick you up
and pocket you. Great bringer of luck,
the stinging grief of news we’ve heard

remains. We’ve seen you tightly rolled;
recall, fondly, the hollow clank
of deposits to our piggy banks,
but can’t recall an item sold

where you passed hands. In recent times,
most coins and even cash are hard
to spend. Shoppers tap a card
rather than carry pennies, dimes,

or nickels. Quarters maybe. Still,
as I set my groceries on the belt,
I hope you’ve recently been dealt,
and try to peek inside the till.

O, copper echo of the past—
I clasp you firm within my grip,
afraid that I might let you slip,
knowing nothing will always last.

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Matthew Chronister is from Sacramento, CA, where he lives with his wife, son, and dog. He teaches English at Union Mine High School, where he is also advisor for the Creative Writing club, as well as co-advisor for Poetry Out Loud. He received his BA and MA from Sac State. His work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in Hive Avenue Literary Journal and The Stillwater Review.