A Fickle Little Thing

Bradlee Thomas

I wonder

which means I wait.

 

I find space between the couch cushions

so I can feel as small as a coin

and sit among the discarded.

 

I’ll be thankful

that we have one thing in common.

 

Someone rips apart the couch

looking for a lost magnetic phone wallet

but picks me up instead

and puts me in their pocket after deliberation.

 

My denim bed, the wallet person, and I,

together we walk through routes

my feet remember with no gps

and I wonder

which means I wait.

 

I am wondering about the people on the streets

which means that I am waiting

for one more person to notice me

which means I need to fall out of this pocket

which means that one is never enough

just like how I’m worth

1/3000th of a pack of gum or a pop

and the government is going to phase me out

by the end of the year.

 

I hope one day I’ll end up in a money box

so that I can be put in a bag

with bills that are worth

more than me and 100,000 of us combined

all while the man who knows none of us

makes about $68,493 per hour

all while knowing we’ll never be registered.

Maybe we’ll get a memorial penny.

 

I wonder about what my engraving will be

and hope that it’s a porcelain doll

which means I’m waiting.

 

But waiting and wondering

is better than blindly accepting our fate.