Coaster brake on his blue bike wheel,
Dust rose, dirt road, skid to a stop.
The sunlight's dew gleaming at his heel,
The prize, the green glass, empty bottle of pop.
No money in pocket, no copper, nor tin.
A journey for bottles to earn a nickel or a dime.
Worn shirt, too large jeans, held fast with a pin,
A playing card on his spokes, keeping the time.
One then, two, three more by the tracks,
Two more at the pool, down in the park.
Looking in trash cans, Stuffing bottles in his pack,
Sunshine, a breeze, a chasing dog's bark.
To the store with his load, down the road it's not far.
He grins at the grocer, stacks them up for his pay.
Heads home to his mom, puts his money in the family jar.
Poor again, but happy, for tomorrows another day.
I have to admit that when I read his poem, I teared up. I may not have excelled at teaching my kids about money, but I must have done something right.