Bad Penny
Johnny Payne


What good to brake for a skunk?
Either way, the perfume will follow
you home.  Already you spilled
Coffee on your shirt as the Dog Star
ascends.  Hot caffeine on a summer
night makes no sense.  You might
as well have gotten drunk since
you swerved anyway, as if you
could avoid minor disaster.
Each morning, donut in hand
you make the sign of the cross
as you stoop to pick up a bad penny
wondering who left it the night before.
So many signs to follow:  a red bird
on a black wire, dry patch on a green
lawn, the emoticon sent without a text.
On every shirt, a button lost, on
every clearance rack an ashtray
from your past.  You taught the cat
to spell but she can’t remember the vowels.
In the dead of a nap, a small still voice
tells you the oven has been left on
and grasshoppers invade your lawn.
An electrician’s house call and a fortune
teller’s prophecy cost the same, seventy-five
Bucks.  Choose now or later, for it will
come to an equal end.  The lucky dollar
you earned as your first restaurant
tip will remain forever inside the left front
pocket of pressed pants you left in a dry cleaners
whose name you can’t remember.