by Sparks In Shadow
She’s bent down for the supposed luck of copper pieces, examining their weight in her hands, wondering where they’ve been, checking dates in case their stories were told there. Today she pretends she’s cold as she passes them, fingers pinching fabric inside her pockets to keep them busy.
For all she knows, her lost pennies lie between quick footsteps and blots on rough pavement. Lifeless, the coins don’t pine as they represent prior stories, some hers, unintelligible bits of truth holding fast, refusing to die.
She’s tried words. Like the tiniest knives with the least effect – like pennies, they fall.