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This poem is a companion piece to accompany my memoir vignette "Archeological Dig" posted on Poetry Soup if you'd like to read it: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/archeological_dig_13587
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I find them~ in the cracks of asphalt in streets and parking lots. They are copper pilgrims, their heads bowed down, waiting for my hand. Some are slick with rain, others dull as old bones, but each one carries the weight of a wish someone forgot to make. I gather them like tiny suns, warm from the sidewalk’s breath, until my pockets sag with the gravity of abandoned luck. I pry one from the teeth of a gutter~ Lincoln’s face half-eaten by time. Still, I take it home, lay it on the windowsill where the light could baptize it anew. What is a coin but a story paused mid-sentence? I am the archaeologist of small fortunes, excavating where no one else looks. Someday, I will leave them in places where hands might need them more~ tucked under bus seats, balanced on ledges, for the next believer to pocket a tiny prayer.
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