The Maynard
Fall 2017

Jocko Benoit

Small Change
                  I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.
                                      -Salvador Dali

At the bottle depot, I empty garbage bags
of recyclables worth small change. The man
separates plastic, glass and metal—drinkables
off to be reborn at container rehab. A mood I can’t
define fills me—I am the vessel for my emotions.
Sledgehammers of ten types of salvation batter me,
but not one can beat a single feeling. I can put on
a Broadway fa├žade, but the microbial stew
in my gut knows me better than an anthem
or public transit—steering me anywhere fast.

I am not one to bet the future in a ballot
or a sweepstakes ticket. I do not stand near
the centrifugal bumblepuppy for the ball
to come my way, or play an astral bingo
that calls out the planet best for me. I send
stunt optimists to job interviews and first dates.
And sometimes on my dial, “Beauteous” is set to
“Maximus.” A kiss turns her and I into a tuning
fork. A weight lifts without the help of a diet.
I remember to fix my life in post when memory
insists my imaginary friends were not Hell’s Angels.
My pocketful of change today is not a reward
for saving the environment, but a bit of beat-heavy
coin music from the bottle depot machine,
with no dreams of being a symphony.