the walking guy and the table

his head always down, eyes to the ground
perusing the ground for lost change,
tossed out by the nonchalant masses.

unaware of the vehicles passing by,
or, perhaps, his desire to find that
free currency shields his peripheral
vision, he makes a step into the road
to pick up the copper Lincoln.


he’s hit; destroyed; the man exits
his truck and he is the size of an
oak table; round and sturdy.

he stares at the walking guy,
realizing he’s dead,
picks up the penny,
and drives away.
no sense in caring about someone
that seeks the lowest currency.

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Recently moved back to the States after living 16 months in Vietnam. I write to remove the thoughts trapped in the cobwebs of my psyche before the spider envelopes me whole.

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