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.
John Davis Jr. is the author of Hard Inheritance (Five Oaks Press, 2016), Middle Class American Proverb (Negative Capability Press, 2014), and two other poetry collections. His work has been published in literary journals internationally, with notable appearances in The American Journal of Poetry, Nashville Review, Tampa Review, and Deep South magazine, among many others. He holds an MFA in creative writing from University of Tampa, and teaches English courses for colleges in the Tampa Bay area.
So visual. I loved it. I am a 67 year old woman who remembers sling shots and a reckless launch. So long ago. Last year I found an old limb from a tree long dead lying on the ground. Its shape struck a chord. I whittled some and sanded it, and prepared it for the leather, or the elastic. I was going to give it to my grandson who is 7. Without supervision by me down the road……. I thought about it again. It lies peacefully on the shelf, smooth and perfect.
Thanks for bringing the picture into my mind’s eye.