~ The Poet's Place Cafe~

THE COLLECTOR

I step out in my winter coat
Well masked from the cold
The hood covers most of my face,
Yet I still find,
Without looking around,
Those coins on the sidewalk
Half buried in snow.

It is always the same
I see them everywhere
On the street, in stores
In travel on trains and buses
Stepping out to eat and drink
In cafes and bars,
Those gleaming circles before me,
Shining pennies, cents, and quarters,
And sometimes a dollar or two.

‘Twas fun at first,
To pick up and hoard them in my pockets
My fingers brushing heads and tails
To toss them to friends
To tell strangers about my small wealth.

But now I’m half filled with fear
Fight a strange sense of dread
Because someone
Either friend or foe
I can’t remember which
Claimed these mementoes of each day
The unsought treasures in my sight
Are the eyes of the dead watching the living.

So when I spot them now
Shining an unspoken invitation
I linger by the coins
My fingers in my pockets
Frozen with no one near
Asking myself once, twice,
Even ten times two…
Do the eyes of the dead
Like what they see?


Do they like what they see?
Do they believe
These are my dues
To be paid to Charon the boatman?


When it is time, when my chest is full
He will row me across the river
Take me on a journey of no return
To enter that house
Where I will rest, and doubt no more.


THE END