Thursday Poetry: Stolen Dimes

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 Stolen Dimes


My jumbled thoughts inside

A runaway Mack truck

Plowing through a spent corn field

Just East of my childhood

And that damn soda machine

At the gas station

That stole my dimes

For the promise of a cold bite

Of a Coke

On endless hot days

Without school, a job

Or sense of purpose.

I close my eyes to the ping

Of hot metal.


4 Replies to “Thursday Poetry: Stolen Dimes”

      1. The long ago is present both consciously and unconsciously. The stuff that we remember is subject to a warping of sorts, because that is how memory is. That is not to say we can’t recall in precise detail, because we do, just not as often as we think. Dimes played a part in my youth as well, so your poem felt personal.


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