DIMES - Izabella Harvey

I asked my father for an Abe Lincoln,
Something he called the five dollar bill.
I wanted to get something, I don’t remember now.
I heard the gentle but stomping sound of feet
across the wood floorboards that indicated he had gone.
I knew the papers beside me were the
heat bills laying across the counter, overdue.
The insurance must have been put off till next week.
His feet retraced back to me, a collection of coins— 
dimes in hand.
I saw the pitiful plastic bag, the various sizes inside, 
and knew he had been saving it a long time. 
I felt shame and pride and sadness come across my face 
as he looked at me hopefully, an awfully childlike gleam in his eyes.
With a frown, “it’s not much”, he gave me what he had
a handful of change in a bag.