He turns the pennies over in his palm
Looking for the year he was born.
Not finding or not recognizing
He says, “This true oh my soul.
I was born, but not into any of these years.”
The wind blows damp down the back street,
Weedy, neglected behind the tracks.
All his life he’s returned here.
He stands today,
turning over a handful of pennies.
Looking for his beginning.
Not now. Never will.