I collect lost coins.
Silver blackened by air,
copper eyes closed in sleep.
Talisman of luck and warning.
Put in a jar
to remind me of lost things
covered by dust.
Walked on like shards of pottery
where a village grew,
ignored or overlooked.
Who dares pick up a penny?
Esteemed token of a child,
of no value to the grown.
Which I rescue
for its synchronicity,
loveless existence,
lost meaning,
like useless phrases
that had love as their verb or noun.
Charms scattered from a pocket.
I pick them up,
remembering people I care for,
mourn for,
wonder,
where in their journeys they’ve gone,
and put them in a jar
which is filling slowly.
Found from places where I go,
and spotting them,
stoop down to put luck
in my hand