The Coin

Started off as a Writing Burst in class about an object we were given. I got an old, beat up coin.

Silently sitting with all of its kind

shining and new and identically so,
but only to those who don’t want to know.
Who would care to examine when all it can be
is a way to keep living and eat for a week.

Scratches like scars that never really fade
cover the skin of the one I hold.
As old as the face that stares out so bold
at the world all around,
to be known by all for feeding the people.

Untouched by ones who horde, guzzle and need
the shiny new weight to add to the score,
to keep themselves powerful and keep others poor.
But look a little closer and it’s obvious to see
the difference in each that makes them unique.