The Currency of Doubt

All day I had my doubts.
Carried them in my hand
like coins from a far country
brought back and kept
to be spent again
when I returned there.

They are the currency of
nights measured in city blocks,
lips parted in limosines,
laughter behind doors in
a language guttural and cold,
a bottle rolling and spinning.

The coins of doubt are warm
to the touch in Faith's pocket.
Faith limps along penniless,
shoe-worn, and tired. It carries them,
bright and smooth, lest it forget
where it is going, where it has been.

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