POEM - A Snap of the Fingers Makes the Penny Buzz

I learned the trick many years ago

Newly landed in San Bernardino

On a smoggy, sunny spring morning

Hanging with Trevor at lunch

He was the one who taught me the technique

“You just hold it between your thumb and middle finger

            And snap it! Like that!”

The copper coin buzzed across the room

Clinked into the wall

            Left a little divot in the paint

                        Very cool!

I started to collect my pennies

Had a few dollars’ worth to practice with

Kept going until I littered the floor

Until I got them to buzz every time

Left divot after divot of my own

            Along with miniature bas relief Lincolns

                        Or similar half-finished impressions

                        Of his DC memorial with “ONE C”

In a curve below the steps

As boys and projectiles often do

It wasn’t long before we took aim at each other

Oh, the battles that we waged!

            The whoosh of the near miss

                        The hum of darting currency

As each of us dove for ammunition

            Or ducked to avoid welts

The best shot I ever made was at Trevor’s expense

It was a typical day at lunch

            A small skirmish had broken out

                        Minor casualties and minimal aggression

But something escalated quite accidently

Perhaps I accidently skimmed one of his head

Or it was just a Tuesday

However it happened, I found myself prostrate

            Diving and scrounging for a penny

                        As Trevor stood fully poised

                                    To rain down certain death upon me

At that moment my fingers found purchase

            I grasped a single coin in my firing hand

Snapped my fingers

            And watched in sudden slow-mo

                        As the coin made a beeline

                                    To its armed cousin in Trevor’s fingers

It was a moment frozen by impossibility

            I had shot the penny out of Trevor’s hand!

Like some kind of climatic scene

            In every Western shoot-out ever

These days he claims ignorance

            Says I’m just making up stories

But we both know the truth

            As I fake a lunge at him

He still flinches, and gives me a dirty look

            Subconsciously reaches for his pocket

Contemplates a retaliatory shot

            I put on my Cheshire grin

The same one I wore

As I watched that penny fly out of his hand