The ATM at Midnight

The pump hums a low, electric sound,

while the smell of the fuel hangs close to the ground.

He’s standing there looking at his boots and the dirt,

holding the collar of a grease-stained shirt.

I drop the keys into his shaking palm,

trying to keep my own face calm.

The fender is crumpled, the light is a crack,

and I know that the money is never coming back.