Matt Stansberry
 

Two Coins
 

My friend had a coin, untouched by human
hands, that he dropped and had to
pick up, its casing broken.

A sterile token, minted by virgins
like an unmanned spacecraft
orbiting a planet of curiosa.

Fated to gravitate towards novelty-real
gold flakes in vials of water,
souvenir owl pellets, lava from Vesuvius.

And it reminded me of my coin, a three-cent piece
in a flat box on the top shelf of a gun safe
bolted into the floor.

Tarnished disc, damaged saucer with the worn
face of Hermes, praying for rescue
from an alien tomb, its people to return.
 
 
 

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