Golden Horde A knock on the door; I answer it. Henry Ford is standing there. He's holding his cap in his right hand, His left is outstretched, "Say, buddy," quoth he, "Can you spare a dime?" I do want to help him; I reach for my change; Through some flux in perspective, A tear in my pocket, My own dime has dropped and is lost. I spin 'round instinctively, Eyes scanning maddeningly, Hands searching frantically; I retrace the path I have taken 'til now; I had it at one point, but now it is gone. "I'm sorry," I tell him, with tears in my eyes, "My own dime I've lost; I can't recall where." "My friend," he says, "You need this more than I." He hands me his hat, tells me "Go find another." Another one, maybe, but never my own. Brandon Sumner