Double Dimes - Sonnet 35

A lint ball lining silver in my hand;

It once was insulation to the core

Of trouser pockets - now another shore

To crash and break upon the golden sand

Of early consciousness. What more degree

I tarry with the asphalt, none can say,

But one who mastered concrete spoke to clay,

“Would I be right that you purport to be

Both puppet and a scholar?” I may find

An answer deep within my pockets now:

Some trembling keys, a wallet, a small brow

Comb for my mustache, and my second mind.

But double dimes trace o’er my hands today,

So I may smile and whistle on my way.