Pocket Change

There is no one-eighty,
no Bizarro reflection in the glass.
Negative becomes positive only after
     chemicals,
     red light,
     being hung out to dry.

I have only pocket change--
several coins short of a buck.
Every step jingles like sleigh bells or fairy dust.
A thousand stranger's imprints on its faces
     of a thousand shared desires.
Tossed casually from pockets to jars jumbled with
      dull tacks,
      loose screws,
      lost marbles.
Just as likely disappeared into cracks of sofas and sidewalks
where they wait until desperate seekers
grope expectantly to find the bit of change
to fit the bill.

Too little too late.

It takes a hundred to make a whole.