Being the change

Filthy mitts, mine;
from dirty money, old coins
passed through my ancestors—
and stranger hands, lands.

Worn completely smooth, some,
faces melted; or
dented, chipped;
verdigris.

Capitalism kills, and so
I gift them freely—
odd requests,
from friends I haven’t met.

Silver for pudding,
copper for dye, a
handful of pirate play;
pennies for pendants; thoughts?

Odd a gift of money
(expired)
can build community; usually
it ruins everything.

Antipatico;
you know what they say:
a fool and his money— or
don’t mix—