From under the freshly fluffed pillows
I extract the note
and the small, jagged lump
wrapped in Kleenex.
In its place
I leave a large, silver coin
bearing the bust of Susan B. Anthony.
I understand that Mr. Lincoln
or even Mr. Hamilton
are popular currency
under other pillows.
I unfold the note
written in my daughter’s
wobbly manuscript. She asks
simply that the tooth be
cared for and brushed
every day.
I tuck the note and Kleenex bundle
in the bottom drawer of
my jewelry box and wonder
about the exchange:
trust that is absolute
for a dollar,
an assurance I cannot give
even 170 years after Seneca Falls.
She deposits the coin with feathers
and postcards
in a glossy, foiled cigar box
under her bed–
her currency of hope.