The Change is Loose, God Help Me

Friday skies taste of pennies
like they taste of TGIF and
graveyard shift, again,
oh god I hate these big-bust retail
twenty four hour nights.
Kids in the parking lot may
listen to their 50-Cent past curfew
but I would be happy with quarters;
that store-name can is all
I have to burn for midnight oil.

To say nothing of the days,
knee-deep in tarnished dimes
dropped down from greying skies--
this kind cuts your hand
when you grab for it.

If I had a nickel every time I tried,
I could buy new bandaids.