The Rhyme of the Dime

Our little kings and queens
Whose smirking legacies
Become less and less defined
Mistaken for menacing intensity
With every green printed ream
Quarters, pennies or dimes
And every nickel eye that mirrors mine.
Compared to the value of an infinite line
the radius times Pi
A dime might as well be worth nine.
The life of a dime
With all the dirt and grime
When its scuffed and brown
Or caked in mud and never found
The dime makes it back to the womb
To earth where it was mined
Where it is then consumed
Appreciated like fine wine
That random moment when it came due
Even if you've refined the taste of time
The moment the dime recycled
Hardly gives a clue
To the flavor of its adventures
Or the spicy sweetness its accrued
The dime in its grime
Worth 10 cents
Kept in pockets and jingled
Lent and used and spent
Born december Ninth 1962
Pocketed, forgotten and reused
Was forgotten by the last someone
Before it got to you.