Clay Money Poem by JUSTIN W Price

Smooth clay money denominated

by color. On their face,

painted brightly the words LAST FRONTIER,

lying in furious short stacks of ten,

maliciously marching across

green felt,

three deep and ten wide. The remainder rummage

between my fingers with a dull

ringing

as I watch the faces, numbers, shapes, colors, letters fall,

across the felt

seeing how they match up with the ones

in my hand, bringing with them the rising

and fallings

of the stacks.

I’m cautious to release them.


To my right, frightening stacks of twenty,

ten deep

but only five wide, powerful

in a more obvious way. Their owner is careful, but somewhat

more careless then I. He does not finger

his remainder, but merely lets it lay there,

lonely and unstacked. He broods

and stacks

and destacks, seemingly

without worry or care.

When he runs out,

he pulls out green wads of paper

and creates more stacks

of twenty.


To my left, uneven stacks that rise

and fall with haste, without nourishment

and with much frequency, seemingly with no regard

to the faces, numbers, shapes, colors, letters in his own hands,

not to mention the ones we all share

on the felt.

He shuffles his clay money between his fingers,

but doesn’t grow attached as they are tossed

amongst the others

far more frequently than mine—far more frequently

than everyone's—and are rarely returned

or multiplied. Before long, the holder

and his haphazard clay money vanish

and order is returned.


I smile at the smoothness between my fingers.