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They call to him
They Call To Him
By A. Gagliardi
He spots their roundness yards away.
Whatever else he sees, I cannot say
But anyway, his gift dismays me
he sees cold hard cash. He is one with them.
Yes. He detects coinage in all
their calibrated hiding places
playing peek-a-boo in the grasses,
sleeping along the edge of the road - nestled
amongst the fallen leaves,
peeping from the concrete lip
of the sidewalk as we stroll hand in hand.
He sees each and every one.
They call to him, ringing out their round sound.
Summoning, beckoning – exclaiming their presence. Pick me!
Pick me! They shout for him.
As a homing pigeon he spies their curvature
of green or darkest brown,
the coins not one other person has found.
They signal and he hears their ballooned sphere -
hollow and muted, yet distinctively there.
He picks them up, caresses their continuity
. . . and gives them all to me.