(for Dick Schmidt, on his birthday)

Because, the day before he turns 82,
he pulls himself out of a warm bed
sooner than he’d like to come to
your house and pick up

the lone box that remains of
your late mother’s many, many
boxes of books, and he drives it to
the friends of the library place

that only accepts donations
two mornings a week, which you
can’t manage this week because
of other obligatos, as he says.

And because it is the birthday
of the 16th president, this day that
was once upon a time a federal
holiday, he texts that, though you

are not available, he would have
liked to see you and give you a
new penny (soon to be extinct if
a new president has his way)

to honor “dude’s birthday,”
adding, “I owe you one,”
this dude of yours who
presents you with a shiny

penny each time you cut
his hair, which you save
in a special place, and which,
should the bits of copper-

plated zinc go the way
of other vanished species,
you realize takes on an
even greater meaning—

all those bright coins that
reside in your kitchen,
winking his love at you
all the livelong day.