A Poem: God of Spare Change


God of Spare Change

He makes the offerings

among the rolled up socks

sandwiched between couch cushions,

among the dregs of last week’s junk mail

Tiny copper eyes

not unlike his own

that wink reassurance

from table tops and kitchen drawers

in amongst the paper clips and thumbtacks.

He peppers the floor with silver

a cold, flat trail of breadcrumbs

a small bite against the soles of bare feet

a musical rattle in the vacuum canister

a nickel-pebbled path that leads the way

from room to room

to and from work

a homing beacon from the car’s cup holder.

He utters a prayer

a mantra in tiny metallic disks

a fortune that lies in small denominations

a harvest of minute treasures

the gathering of which brings patience

and mindfulness of blessings earned

one cent at a time.

Copyright Amy Leask, 2020

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