Born to the penny jar
A monotonous clink
Bold copper
Brave semblance
And as we age
Traces of ink
Pocket to palm
We absorb oil and clay
Riding the rails
Blind in the day
We conjure our worth
Collect specs of good news and bad coffee
Newspaper under one arm,
We compile our protests and quiddities
Beaming with tinseled sophistication
To cloak our role as the malcontent
Where in the classified’s can you find another’s soul?
We are troubled with the anonymous
Haunted by the unknown
Retained in perpetual naiveté
Alternate beliefs are inconvenient light leaks
On a picture that doesn’t belong to us
How tiresome to build these walls
To deprive ourselves of vitality

We are born to the penny jar
A monotonous clink
And there we return
Mossy and dull
From a journey of heads and tales