Five Cents

The desert is burning.
The sand whitens.
Natives with feathered head-gear
scorch their heels in the dance.
The image fades on the old nickel;
the bison gallops off the edge
of a presidential favorite.
Its clink grows duller by the year.
Soon it will make no sound,
this old picayune, as it drops
on the pavements, highways,
and runways of the Midwest.

Copyright © 2006 Noel Conneely All rights reserved
from Chelsea
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission