I woke up with a 1 Ruble coin in my hand.

Strange.

How and from whom, unknown.

It fitted perfectly into my hand’s curl,

palm receptive.

I felt its curve and brought it up to my face.

I smelled it, for some reason,

then studied *its* face.

1977, Olympic issue,

3 years hence,

history…

I smiled.

I wonder who held it before me,

this coin,

who bequeathed it,

several times over,

in serendipitous turns,

people,

generally unthinking and banal,

fleeting possession, in exchange…

Maybe to buy toilet paper,

possibly bread,

50 issues of Pravda?

Perhaps Andropov himself…

 

©ddr7hd

 

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