Probably Just Sunday

Beads of dun spill out unseen 

While you walk laughing on the way. 

Heedless of what lands in dust, 

You have enough and more to spare. 

You string each one along coarse thread, 

A knobby line of common clay.

A line that lengthens as it must,

I try but can't avert my stare. 

And my hand aches 

From six bright stones, sharp-edged. 

The gems I grip are fine and rare, 

With colors fit for festal days, 

Yet I would trade with joy and haste 

For those you drop without a care.