Coins and Breath

The window fogs—

a pale cloud rises where breath meets glass.

Fingers clink cold coins

onto the metal tray, a clatter like small bones.

The attendant's hands are slow,

fumbling with receipts, the paper curls,

scraps caught under cracked nails,

a ritual folded into winter’s gray morning.

Change passes from palm to palm,

a transaction older than the roads.

The booth’s light flickers,

a small island between here and somewhere else.

A barrier held in coin and breath,

a moment frozen in the clang,

where passage costs more

than just the toll.