Penny Sorting

 

Penny Sorting

Ashleigh tells me

that they have officially

started phasing out

the Canadian penny.

I try to focus

on the terrible poems being read

in this dark café, but between

the TV throbbing and my thoughts

of the poor pennies, I can do nothing

but stare at my hands.

Ashleigh sees my face pouring

into my fingernails

and tells me it’s ok.  This

overly lipsticked Korean girl’s

poems are basically the same

as watching an episode of “Girls”. 

I remember sorting

the Canadian coins from the American

in my father’s large, square dish of change. 

I don’t quite know why I did this –

perhaps I was collecting quarters

for the ice cream truck?  Perhaps

I was just a strange children

who liked holding small things. 

The Canadian pennies,

in my memory of them,

have beautiful copper beavers

on both sides – though I know

they have maple leaves and

that it is, in fact, the Canadian nickel

that depicts a beaver.  My hands,

after a good coin sorting,

were disgusting – caked

in something that couldn’t be seen,

but I could feel it – a softness that was

unpleasant and old.  The edges

of my fingernails would be dirty

and I never knew why but that ugliness

would force my fingernails into my mouth. 

I try to focus on the lilt

of this tiny woman’s voice, but

I find I have been picking at my fingernails. 

There is no place for them to go but up.