ordinary

she empties her pockets after work
spare change falling into
collapsing hills on her desk
thinking that she should put something there
(a jar, or cup)
to collect the meandering mess
the handfuls of used presidents
and borrowed time
accumulated and dispersed
edges softened from years
of linty pockets and sweaty hands

maybe she could find something pretty
she thinks
maybe a little fishbowl
yes
that could be nice
a little fishbowl

she pictures it there
as she exchanges
one pair of pants for another
one crumpled shirt for another
pictures it as she contemplates taking a bath
(the warm water would be nice,
the bubbles,
maybe a scented candle)

she pictures it there
the roundly transparent host
to different versions of the same colors
little drops of metal that dully sparkle
in the tired yellow light
of bulbs which buzz a bereaved protest
before flickering into an begrudging glow
that subtly fades with the hours
peeking over its shoulder from time to time
to see if anyone has noticed its retreat

little drops of metal
touched thoughtlessly by thousands before her
to be touched by thousands more,
carelessly,
each so accustomed to the other's presence
that neither looks up from the paper
to say good morning

these things,
so ordinary,
to be dropped in a bowl made for fishes
and transformed, temporarily,
into something satisfyingly quaint