fountain hunger

sometimes a poem 
only has a title
so the author can 
pretend that they
meant something cohesive 
by writing it.
i make a lot of poems without
ever writing them down but this
is one i'm writing down & 
also throwing away on the
face of a penny-- this
is a poem written on abraham lincoln's
nose-- so small you can't see it--
i've been thinking about
the fountain at the mall
i used to go to in high school--
the one with the pet store
where you can hold puppies
once you get a driver's license--
with the food court on the second
floor-- chick fil-a behind
bars on a sunday 
between taco sensations
& subway--
down below right outside of
boscov's is a big
fountain with a wooden bridge across--
i've dropped so many pennies there
& i wonder if they're still waiting
to become a wish i've long ago forgotten--
i've concluded there's probably someone whose
job it is to collect them-- angel or
maybe a janitor who works
the night shift on the first weekend 
of every month-- they keep bags of 
everyone's fallen copper desires--
do they buy a taco upstairs with
them or spend them on a sundae at
dairy queen outside the front door?
if it were me i wouldn't be able to part with
them-- so many relics of people who
all wanted to take out a piece of themselves
& throw it into the fountain--
-- there is a certain
type of empty hunger
that makes people throw their change
into an artificial blue
body of water-- a sort of hapless
type of hope we give to our children--
my uncle was the first one to
teach my brother & i to toss
pennies into fountains-- eagerly
he stopped us on the bench
next to the bridge & pried open
his leather wallet-- dumped
a handful of pennies into his
hand & split them between us--
confused we watched as he tossed a few
as examples-- a spurt of water
following the satisfying plunk
of each as they descended--
i remember asking when the wishes
would come true & my uncle had said
eventually
eventually we all will take
our hungers by the handful &
throw them away to drown--
i have kissed several boys on that
bridge above the ghosts of people's
pocket dreams-- the fountain is a graveyard
& an open mouthed wind--
an ocean-- i'm writing this
poem because i have wanted to walk
into the fountain for a long time--
take off my socks & shoes at the edge
& wade in-- water to my calves--
i want to catch the wishes as people
toss them-- hold the coins up to my ears
& tell the presidents to whisper--
tell me all the secrets we can stuff
into a pocket or the bottom
of a shoe-- i want to know
what parts of you believe
enough to throw your change in a wishing
in the artificial fountain 
outside the boscov's at the mall--
i want to collect enough pennies
to buy you an ice cream around the corner--
sit on a bench & talk about all
the boys we've kissed on bridges
& all the pennies we've dropped
into the fountain as a resolution to
a hunger that filled us up
far past the depth of the 
blue water beneath our knees--
this is one of those human places
we don't have to understand-- this is
the bridge where you're allowed to forget
the details & it's sunday remember
so chick fil a is closed up stairs 
& the fountain cleaner is coming tonight
to fill a bag with pennies & use them
to buy himself tacos for dinner
all alone right before he locks all
the doors & stands on the bridge
alone-- only to repeat the process
by tossing his own pennies
off into the water-- 
sometimes a poem tries to describe
a feeling we don't have words for--
i'm calling this the hunger of
fountains-- a purely human endeavor--
a type of modern baptism 
in search of a god who would
grant wishes-- 
we built
a fountain