I’m five minutes into a day I didn't want

I’m five minutes into a day I didn't want,

shaking the meter like a slot machine.

The nickel is crooked, a metallic tooth

jammed in the throat of the machine.

Down at the base, the iron is scaling off

in chunks of orange rust and dried salt.

A dog has left a dark, bitter mark

against the pole. I’m sweating in the cold

while the 'Expired' sign blinks red

and the street hums with people who aren't late.