Stealing From My Mother’s Purse (Poem)

I once took a dollar bill and a quarter from my mother’s purse

not to spend but to contemplate

why did this slightly crumpled printed thing and a shiny piece of metal

mean anything at all

I rubbed them both in turn between my fingers, fascinated by their texture

unable to determine if the bill were paper, fabric, or something in between

liking the ridges on the edge of the coin

( I can identify this one when I can no longer see, I thought)

I carefully put them back, still mystified as to their value

many years later I remain so, the best explanation being

they’re part of our collective fairy tale, childish playthings

we’ll abandon when we grow up