Grandpa’s Piggy Bank

It sits on the dining room table
in front of the plate where I share a daily meal with my wife.

Fashioned from a small coconut shell,
mahogany brown, streaked with fine flecks of tan,
as polished and smooth as a miniature bowling ball,
no more than 4 inches in diameter,
Its ears, snout and eyes—alert and attentive—
seem to follow my every move with hungry intent.

A gift from my grandchildren.
Air Force brats, stationed in Guam across the International Dateline.
Always one day ahead of me,
but ever in my heart.

Every few days I feed the piggy,
dropping my spare change through the slot in her back.
As one coin thunks upon another, the twine tail twitches,
and I think of my grandchildren,
each coin a tangible prayer.

Now the bank has grown heavy
in anticipation of their return.

When they come home,
we will dump the treasure on the dining room table
and count the coins like pirates dividing Spanish doubloons.
Then with our pockets jingling,
we will go to the ice cream parlor, and the dollar store,
to spend our well-gotten gains—
a year’s worth of waiting consummated in a few days’ time.

When they leave,
I will return the piggy bank to her honored place
and begin to fill it once more
with coins and hope.

By Rev. Michael A. Weber ©August 31, 2019. For permission to print this poem, please contact the author at msnrweber@verizon.net