Toll Booth Thoughts

The coins in my palm, a weight of the miles,

a toll booth attendant with a weary smile.

She takes my fare, each coin like a plea,

a tiny confession, a whisper of me.

Motor oil mingles with the air, thick as dreams,

while fingers tap rhythm, lost in the schemes.

I roll down the window, let the world flow,

just miles to go, but this moment holds so.