When I'm jogging
I often see pennies
glint on the pavement in the afternoon sun.

I pick them up and stuff them in the tiny pocket
stitched into my running shorts.
Once home, the penny mingles with the darks,
until I hear it clinging against the dryer door.

Once in a while—not usually on a run—I find a wheat penny.
I drop it into a cut glass dish
I keep on my dresser.
They remind me of a time
when everyone saved a tin can
an old tire
rubber bands
and pennies.

A few days ago I was jogging in the evening.
As I rounded the asphalt path that curves around the playground,
I spotted several teen-aged boys
sitting in the shadows along on a stone wall,
swinging their legs.
I could hear them
flinging something at an SUV.
Ching. Clink. Ting, ting, ting.

They were throwing coins,
laughing.

I drove by that spot today,
too lazy to jog.
Afternoon sun angled across the parking lot,
lighting the bright silver surface
of a quarter.

I stuck it in my pocket,
brought it to my bedroom
and dropped it gently among the wheat pennies
slowly filling the bottom
of the cut glass dish.

© 2005, Ann Kroeker