With the back of one hand
he wipes saliva & Icehouse
from his lips, spits into the dirt
and contemplates the quarter
he's about to toss toward the
cement curb. "This mother
fucker right here," he mumbles
to no one in particular, "is
my god damn salvation."
Then, with a flick of his thumb,
the silver disc flies through the
air, arcing like the hands of fucking
God or a ballistic missile,
flipping end over end and glinting
with each stuttering grab at the sun.
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