Pocket Change - a Night Owls Lament

Collect days like pennies; hope they’ll add up; hope they’ll be enough. Go begging when they’re not. Each morning vomit up the night like a drowned man clearing lungs filled with water. Gather up stars from the vom. Take them to the shop; see if they’ll pawn dreams for hope. Nope. Wind slips through all the holes in jackets, just like change that scattered somewhere, silver, and singing as it hit the concrete rolling into the gutter.