spots some copper on the ground
building up, and luck is bound
to smile at him with upside downed:
a silly superstition
since copper dropped is copper lost;
the face which lands by chance when tossed
is chosen when all choice has crossed
the point of last transition
—
yet pennyflipper still feels bound
to pick that penny off the ground,
turn Abe Lincoln's face around
in hopes he can ill luck confound
through simple reposition.
Spoiler
It feels so nice to write poetry again. Especially rhyming poetry. I miss writing rhyming poetry.
