Paid in Full

The sleet is a curtain of gray on the street

and the tires are splashing the curb.

I’m three minutes late on a pair of cold feet,

with a silence I’m scared to disturb.

The meter maid’s car is a block and a half

from the spot where I’m standing in dread.

I hear the machine give a mechanical laugh

as the flag flips to 'Expired' and red.

It sounds like a bolt being slid in a door,

a final and heavy metallic goodbye.

I don't have the silver to give it anymore.

I'm just watching the minutes run dry.