Used to be our worth was easy
to measure—a coin for each eye,
or one placed above the tongue.
Those were the chips we had
when we rose from the table
and wandered off in search
of something better to do.
I guess this is what remains
when the earth pulls us in,
but isn’t our value in the loam—
how we make the ground
a little softer with our going?
Then someone walking past
can look down and say wait,
here’s some neat old money.

Karen Craigo lives in Springfield, Mo.

Posted in: December 2015: Economic Justice and Poverty, Poetry

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