A Parade of Cents

For his last project, he accepted stamps instead of money: blue Mauritius, a sheet of Inverted Jennies, some Zeppelin issue from 1930s, all handed over in a yellow envelope with a little bow. At home, he laid them out on his cutting mat like pinned butterflies, hoping they were museum-worthy. Google told him he was rich, eBay told him he wasn’t. All those tiny portraits of dead queens and dirigibles staring back at him. He framed them each one by one, his weirdest paycheck, his best design, his worst fortune. Rent overdue, fridge empty.