Late Fee

The rain is coming down in heavy sheets,

turning the asphalt to a greasy black.

I’m just another loser on the streets

who stayed too long and can't get money back.

The sulfur-yellow plastic clings to glass,

a bright and jagged flag that's wet and cold.

The city doesn't care how hours pass,

or how the paper turns to soggy mold.

It’s forty bucks I don't have in my coat,

a five-minute mistake I’ll have to pay.

It feels like someone’s hands around my throat,

choking out the little left of today.