The idea of writing

My fingers fish in a cold, cloudy pool,
Blindly feeling around for a gold coin
Tossed by the unwary and faithful.
If I don't find one this time or the next,
I know I only have to be patient
Or try a different spot later.

When I've got one - ha! -
I'll shake off the water,
Blow on it, pinch it greedily,
Tilt it back and forth to see how it catches the light.
I'll hold it at arm's length and make it cover the sun.
I'll spin it, flip it, step on it, and drop it down my sleeve.
I might scribble on one side,
Defacing the nobleman stamped there.
I'll feel how it weighs on my tongue,
Then see how far I can spit it out.

I'll start a collection.
I must find more, for gold attracts gold
And the faithful have pockets untold.
With two or a few, I can hear how they sound
When I drop them in a stack or clang them together.
I can roll them down a banister and see which one's quickest,
Or rest them on my eyes while I take a nap.
In no time, I'll have enough to stick between all of my toes.

Inevitably, I'll order my hoard
In rows on a bare table,
Considering their arrangement
For an afternoon or a night, or both together,
Pressing my finger against each one in turn
Again and again, giving them my pulse.

When greed starts mumbling in my heart again,
I'll carefully glue the coins on the table
To a piece of torn cardboard
And set it up in my window, facing out.
I'll regard it from the back now and then as I pass,
Always dreaming of fishing for gold.

The End

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