One day the Ferryman will find me and hold out their hand.
I will give a 1966 Irish half-crown as payment,
The horse and harp faces streaked gray against former silver
From the years of travel in my back left pocket.
By then I will have played those harp strings to their bones,
Rubbed the mare’s shining coat down smooth,
Carried the memories of my anxieties along the toothy edge.
One day the Ferryman might ask me why I carry such a coin,
When so many often die now without payment.
I will show them it was minted the year my father was born,
Carried by my great-grandfather on a world tour,
Now held by me as less than lucky but never just a mere prop,
This minor god of chance and memory I’ve kept,
For the chance that one day I might have to pay the Ferryman.
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