"small money"

He shakes the coins in his pocket
confirming the day
retains its listening ear.

Bronze and silver pieces
clink their small weather 
—astronomy at street‑level
     gauging how close two
         strangers might stand.

He offers one, not as charity,
but as a way of saying
 you crossed into my  drift of things,
the way a busker’s hat
collects soft decisions
people make when passing.

She takes it, not for value,
but for warmth,
— metal carrying
the brief history of a palm
and a longer history
of wanting to be met.

The afternoon
moves around them.
Coins settle in her pocket
         tiny agreements
     that the world still
  answers
in small increments.

And they part 
—judgement-free
a scriptless,
faint exchange
between two people
testing whether the day
might open up
a little more.

.