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I’m sitting on the edge of the bed

with my boots still on,

the carpet soaking up the salt from the sidewalk.

The guy at the counter didn't look up once.

He didn't want to touch my hand,

like the skin was a wire carrying a charge.

He let the three dimes drop from an inch up,

letting them clatter and roll on the laminate.

I can still feel the cold, flat metal

pressed into my sweaty palm.

I stood there for a second too long,

the heavy silence of the fridge behind him.