They want to get rid of me,

They do.

Worn out, useless, worthless,

Casting me aside they speak of me as something

of the past.

They tell me I have no value.

Essentially,

I’m nothing.

And then I start to believe it.

I’m worn out, useless, worthless.

Maybe I am nothing.

Maybe,

they’re right.

But

Then I find myself.

I find myself in pavement cracks and purse bottoms,

on top of washing machines and under couch cushions,

In coat pockets and pants pockets and shirt pockets and

on restaurant floors.

Grimy and old or polished and new,

in every crack or crevice,

I am there.

When people find me and see

my face,

Joy is brought to theirs.

I am a spontaneous

I am a unexpected joy,

I am luck.

And that is worth so much more

than what they brand me with.

That is worth so much more

than one cent.