One by one,

I stack piles of pennies 

On my nightstand beside my bed.

One penny for every day.

I do not do this with the intention of

Ever needing them.

I don’t even know why I have so many pennies.

My pennies came from

A jar I’ve saved them in

For the past
thirty years

Leading up to this point. 

Occasionally, a pile gets too tall

And falls over. 

That’s when I begin a new pile.

I have nine piles of pennies

On my nightstand,

Roughly fifteen in each pile.

$1.35.

135 days passed by.

135 days of my life wasted.

I find myself doing nothing

But stacking pennies.

I do not sleep 

Because at night

I look at my pennies.

I sit in my rocker

Staring at my pennies.

I am not living,

I merely exist.

I don’t leave my house,

But every now and then

Law enforcement comes to my home

To do a wellness check.

I can be found in my rocker

Next to my bed

By my nightstand table,

With my pennies.

I stare at them blankly.

I don’t know what to say.

Though, 

Each time they come over,

There are more pennies

On my nightstand.

I may not feel alive,

And I may seem completely unaware,

But my pennies provide

Some kind of 

Proof of life

—Some kind of proof

That I still reside

In this old apartment.

My skin feels like

It could slip off my bones

At any moment

And there are roaches

Crawling underneath my 

Dead refrigerator. 

I am a ghost

Haunting my own apartment.