Requiem for the Penny

A News Response Poem

The canary, a blur of yellow song 
in the pet shop window, sparked a hunger 
in my small heart. As a child, 
pennies were seeds of possibility, 
foraged from under a couch cushion, 
found beneath a dusty rug, a treasure
on the sidewalk, each one a tiny promise. 
I vacuumed and cleaned to earn 
a penny, nickel or dime, saving up 
to buy my precious bird. Now, 
the thin ghost of copper and zinc 
fades. No more the clink in the jar, 
weight in the hand, stalk of wheat. 
Liberty, her flowing hair wild and free, 
once graced its face, before Lincoln, 
before the motto, before the erosion 
of value. In seventeen ninety-three
it was pure copper, heavy in the palm, 
a promise of a nation, fifteen links 
for unity. Now, the pfennig, just a whisper 
of what was, echos across centuries. 
From bronze to zinc-plated shame, 
it has dwindled, mint’s machines 
groaning at the loss: three cents 
to make one. The canary’s song 
grows faint. No more rounding up.
No more take-a-penny, 
leave-a-penny dish. One cent,
small casualty of progress, 
slips into the long night, 
unmourned. But I remember 
the canary, its bright impossible song. 
And the pennies, small suns
in my dusty hands.

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Author’s Note: President Donald Trump announced Sunday that he has instructed Treasury Secretary to halt the production of pennies, citing the high cost of producing one cent. Read about it here.

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