Some people drop quarters in now,
not just pennies like they used to.
When I was a kid, a quarter was gold.
It bought five candy bars
or five bags of M&Ms.
A baby tooth under my pillow,
tied in the knot of my cotton handkerchief,
magically became a quarter overnight
and that much weekly allowance
added up quickly in my piggy bank.
My father always gave me a quarter
in church to toss in the collection plate.
Those George Washingtons had status, respectability.
In 1965, we turned George
on his side and ran our fingers
over the tiny ridges when the US Mint
replaced the silver filling with copper and nickel.
Collectors hoarded the old ones.
But I never kept mine.
I liked to spend.
As a teen, twenty-five cents would buy
bus fare downtown to go shopping
or a soda at the fountain with the swirling stools.
I haven’t seen anyone drop a JFK silver dollar,
but who casts off their quarters?
And nickels and dimes?
Maybe men don’t like a jingle in their pocket
or women feel coins weigh down a purse.
We live on plastic currency anyway.
My impulse is to pluck the quarters from the cup,
give a nod to history—
George, Thomas, Abe and Franklin,
profiles in change.
