A spool of thread, a make-up rate postage stamp, a paperclip, a pen cap with no mast, bob around the sea of copper pennies occupying volume in a dish once meant for soap or soy sauce. I fish there weekly, perhaps today a chance-finding of three quarters to dry what’s been washed-up at the laundromat on the corner.
first appeared in Points Not Found: Writings on the Meaning of Place (Kearny Street Workshop Press 2007)