Coins

He simply sits there
Gazing by the old fountain
Down by 37th street and 8th Avenue
As the bustling multitude of life
Shuffels by.
Sometimes can't help but wonder
Between the mouldy cracked fountain
And the tired old man
Which is the monument?

And he sits there still
Patiently waiting for when the hustle, every once in a while
Stops.
And breathes.

Today that breath
Took the form of a young man
A go-getter
Sporting a sharp Ralph Lauren Jacket
Sprinting between his executive job
And his trophy wife.

When the young man just stops
And the hustle around him fades
And he has that same familiar look in his eyes.
The same look everyone has
When they
Stop.
Staring back at the old moument.

The young man reaches deep into his deep pocket
Brimming with dimes, quarters and dollars
And pulles out a single nickel
Closes his eyes
Draws his breath
And tosses it ito the old fountain.

There ends the brief relationship
Between the old and the new
As the young executive rejoins the city bustle
And the old man slowly
Reaches into the fountain
Picking that single nickel
And puts it into his little collection box
A jar of coins.