The Surcharge

The man in the Corolla ahead

is digging through his center console

for a handful of silver or some grace.

The line is six cars deep and idling,

the air turning thick with exhaust and pace.

The collector leans out of the glass box,

a gray glove stained with diesel and time,

reaching for the change that isn't there.

We’re all leaking a little oil onto the lane,

a dark, slick map of how we didn't care.

You never just cross the bridge for free.

There's a tax for leaving the town behind,

left on the concrete like a black, wet stain.