If the coin in the slot
won’t go in, the machine
is full. If the quarter
a magician pulls from
behind my kid’s ear
comes from his heart, I let him
spend it on a Mars candy
bar,
and if the Trevi’s Fountain’s
coins are the same as I
drop in the gutter, I wish
to receive and cast off
love
like a lost pearl
for a starry night, envious
of our seamless sleep.
And should the moon’s bridal wake,
a stream of sparkling
silver dollars slide
through the screens into our easy
heartbeats,
my long white train no longer trailing
my short-lived single life, long paling,
I’d bank all I’ve squandered for this night’s
treasure —
my womanly body, next to yours, husband.
