New Money

Those strange coins you held in your hands, reading Hemingway in cold cafes, staring out at the cobblestones that tripped you, that tripped you and tricked you for the past two weeks, past buildings older than anyone alive, down alleys too small to hold you, your self slipping out of you, the wall sockets too startling, the oldness too new to you, experience sliding from your palms past the heavy coins too many to understand the value.

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