The transponder let out a final thin croak

The transponder let out a final, thin croak

at the 294 junction. The gate stayed down.

The line of SUVs behind me spoke

in a collective, metallic frown.

I fished in the cupholder, past the grit,

for the quarters I’d saved for a rainy day.

They felt like teeth pulled from a pit,

sticky and small and in the way.

The yellow arm didn’t move an inch.

The quarter bounced off the plastic slot.

It’s a very specific kind of pinch

to realize you’re exactly where you’re not.