The stretch and launch of untargeted pennies
planted our land in bronze. Pinching leather over
Lincoln, we pulled hard as our elastic muscles allowed.
Stray cents dinged a neighbor’s tractor, a shed’s tin roof.
After whirring copper blurred through cloud-ripped denim skies,
we never knew: Heads or tails? Sand wouldn’t render decisions
for aimless, thriftless boys who shot for the gleam, for the humming
curve – trajectories bent by farm wind and country fate.
When mason-jar change ran out, we tried our fathers’ beer caps.
Their teeth chewed the air, whistled dissonance like Saturday
cat calls followed by a Sunday church organ:
…my treasures are laid up/ somewhere beyond the blue…
A thousand rains later, the circles emerged: Green discs
of In-God-We-Trust money and razor-lipped reminders
of drunken dads. Each offered again their weathered choices
to older boys who’d once spun away from this soil.
Header photograph by K Weber.