Wooden Nickels

Carvers of these dreadful coins
must work in cities far from here,
for never have I met a soul
who had the patience for this job;
not of hundred dollar bills,
but nickels. Nickels.
Five cent pieces made of wood,
roughly carved, and painted silver
like a model roadster's chrome.
Children spot them readily,
and toss them back
where they were found.
Senile old men, like me,
on the other hand,
seldom notice an oaken coin
handed over with its metal cousins
at the local grocery store.
Later when I clear my pockets,
I find the cursed nickel,
and place it in the tray
I've set aside for wooden coins.
Twenty, thirty I've got now,
imposters in my home, standing in
for honest, precious cash.
Each one drains a bit from me,
driving me yet closer
to rage that I will soon embrace.
Wooden nickels. Nickels.
Killing me.

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