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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Dark · #2193985
What does it mean, this thing that happens to me every day? I can see it, yet do not see.
THE COLLECTOR

I step out in my winter coat
My hood half covering my face,
Its fur tickles my cheeks
But I still find,
Without looking around,
Those coins on the sidewalk
Half buried in snow.

It is always the same
I see them everywhere
On the street, in stores
In trains and buses
Stepping out to eat and drink
In cafes and bars,
Those gleaming circles
Of pennies, cents, and quarters,
And sometimes a dollar or two.

‘Twas fun at first,
To pick up and hoard them in my pockets
To show them to friends
To tell strangers about my small wealth.

But now I only feel fear
A strange sense of dread
Because someone (I can’t remember who)
Let me know that these unanticipated gains
Are the eyes of the dead watching me.

And so when I spot them now
Shining an unspoken invitation
I linger by the coins
Asking myself once, twice,
Often five times two
Do the eyes of the dead
Like what they see?


Do they like what they see?
Do they believe
That these are the dues
To be paid to Charon the boatman?
He will then row me across the river
That journey of no return
To enter that house
Where I will rest, and doubt no more.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2193985