Giving a Minute Its Five Cents Worth
We try so hard to save the day,
might better worry
how to spend it.
Me, I’ve stored too many–
days projected dry
lain away against the rainy;
hours wadded
like the folded storm bonnets
women used to keep
in their snapped-shut bags;
imagine hosts
of halcyon years–sheaves of wheat
that bow beneath warm skies–
freedom still to come, always–
while I’m feeding this here minute
into a slot cold
as a nickel.
Manifesto: roam fingers
over sides
before slotting;
feel for buffalo.
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Here’s a belated poem for Gay Reiser Cannon’s post on dVerse Poets Pub to write a poetic manifesto–mine is not exactly about poetry, but good, perhaps, for a coin collector. (Ha.)
For those who are not from the U.S., a buffalo nickel is an old style nickel–with a buffalo on one side–they often tend to be fairly valuable.
ManicDDaily 
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