I broke a smile into a dollar change
and still sport the black eye.
The morning tastes like stale coffee
all gritty upon my tongue,
and you are the first to remind me
of my age.
I remember when they introduced
state edition quarters.
Shiny and new metallic landscapes
that I could roll my thumb over
and tell everyone I traveled
while I did my laundry.
You can’t even tell me the names
of all the states,
but you never needed to do laundry
so you didn’t travel beyond the care
of your mother’s hands.
Until you moved across the hall
from my dormitory border,
and proceeded to introduce me
to all your loud beat friends
and broken heart swooners.
You boasted to me
that the crash of their hearts
could rival any metal band drummer
and you wanted to create music
with their heartbreaks.
You smiled and stretched their tears
the length of your face.
So, I broke a smile
to hear your teeth clang
like quarters in a dryer.
Poetic Trials 