image from istockphoto.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At the counter’s edge, my childhood fingers fumble coins~ pennies like fallen stars, nickels cold as lost teeth. Start with the price the clerk says, her voice a slow, patient river. I press a dollar bill in my hand, waiting for the math to unspool in my palms. Quarters roll home first, then dimes—sharp as I hear Mother, Try again. The register sighs. My breath knots, but the numbers, suddenly, step backward into my hands: exact change, warm as a secret. related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/change_13682
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
