The Booth

The window rolled down,

a gust of exhaust, hot and heavy.

The attendant's hand, pale and quick,

darted out from the yellowed plastic,

snatched the worn twenty. No glance,

no 'thank you,' just the slot

swallowing my money.

Behind the smudged glass,

his face was a blur, a permanent grimace

or maybe just bored. Another car,

another exchange, a small tax

on forward motion. The coin basket

sat there, empty, waiting.

Then the gate lifted,

a mechanical sigh, a release.

And I was through, carrying

the weight of that brief, transactionary pause,

the faint smell of stale air

and money changing hands,

into the speed again.