They told me the girl on the street corner
was a dime a dozen. Which is why,
when we stopped at the red light,
they threw coins at her
before speeding off, laughing
like little pigs, all the way home.
They didn’t see in the rear-view mirror
how she fell to her knees, crying,
scrounging to pick up the loose change.
Perhaps that’s why when I saw her
marching down the aisle
at the dirty supermarket
I couldn’t help but ask her
why such a dame would scamper
after a few dozen nickels.
And she told me that in life
we all just scrounge for enough change
to make our empty selves feel whole,
even if, in the end, we are just half dollars.
It was then I felt a prick,
and I told her, if she wanted,
that I would buy her a drink,
pay a penny for her thoughts,
and we could chat the night away.
She agreed with a smile, on the condition
that I wouldn’t be charging any hidden fees
or sticking her backside with my taxes.
It was a pro bono night, indeed.
The next morning I walked her home,
and we stopped at the same street corner.
She found a penny, heads up.
It’s your lucky day she told me,
handing Abe over to me.
I cupped it in her palm and told her
luck be you, m’lady.
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