Poetry Friday: The Word is PENNIES

The luscious and artsy arnheim Lieber from “Is “Is” Is?” has offered up the Poetry Friday WORD for the day.

That word is…wait for it…PENNIES.

Feel free to sprinkle this word in your blog post today, in whatever form teases your hair…poem, story, audio post, embarrassing photo from 8th grade sleep-away camp, butter sculpture, etc. Me, I have two offerings (the second one rushed because the boss nearly busted me, dammit he wasn't supposed to BE HERE today) and the overwhelming urge to dump out my purse and run my fingers through my loose change. Ahhhhh….

Have a good weekend, y’all!


221 Herbert Street

“You’re putting ketchup on my latte?”

The barista smirk-smiled. “Always freaks ‘em out,” he said with a wink, as caramel flowed out of the red squeezable ketchup bottle onto the pillows of whipped cream.

Julia laughed. She needed a smart ass.

She threw three pennies into the Penny Dish and turned into the dim light of the coffee shop. The “Open 24 Hours” sign in the corner highlighted an empty table and she slid into the padded chair. It was really too cold for shorts, but she hadn’t planned on meeting that guy, hadn’t wanted to go to a party, and certainly had no intention of getting lucky that night. But there it was. 3 a.m., skulking back to her apartment, the dampness of frantic sex clinging to her legs, the stale metallic taste of weak beer, the regret nothing more than beads of sex sweat.

College boys are so easy, she thought, as she licked a foamy overflow from the rim of the cup. Not that she minded, as their bragging fumblings fell in two categories…funny and satisfying. The funny ones she laughed about with her girlfriends. The satisfying ones held the fantasies that accompanied her to bed.

She watched the barista move behind the counter, his head bent, a comment and a smile for the guy in the trenchcoat, the couple still drunk, the mom in a jogging suit panting her red face through “something cold and caffeinated”. The sqoosh of the steamy milk nozzle drowned out the corporate attempt at funky ambience music...The Fabulous Thunderbirds, James Brown, Duran Duran. Julia stared at the huge muffins in the display case, the thick slices of lemon loaf, the biscuits and tea cookies. She tried wrapping her brain about what she’d done for dinner, and realized it had escaped her. The beer that Kevin...or was it Keith?...seduced her with did little to bed down the hunger. She’d left for her run with a fiver in her pocket and the latte ate up most of that.

What if…what if I kiss the barista, or hell, even go down on him…that’d be worth a scone, she thought. He was cute, in a snowboarder kind of way, curly lengths of hair in his eyes, the long-sleeved shirt, the tall teeth. He looked like all the others, here for a party and random classes before going to work for Daddy.

Julia waited until he looked her way. Then she smiled, lifted her chin in a nod, and held up her pointer finger, in that “hold on a second” code, and made her way to the counter, smiling that smile that the boys always ate up.

A scone, she thought. Maybe a muffin. Blueberry, I think.



Lincoln, Lincoln, Everywhere

First it was a mayonnaise jar,
Then a gallon milk jug,
Then a 5-gallon plastic tub that lard once came in.

It sat in the corner
The lid clinging on
The copper level tingling and rising

I’d run my fingers through the pile
I’d rub them on my face
Sometimes I’d lick them

I couldn’t ever count them
That would break the spell
That would ruin the surprise

I kept my eyes on the ground
I kept my fingers in couch cushions
I never used exact change

Thirty years later
The row of tubs won’t move
Not without a small crane or several strong men

Pennies to the bank? No.
Pennies to the poor? No.
Pennies all for me?

Yes.