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