Six Minutes

The sleet is a wet, heavy tongue

licking the back of my coat.

I’m late. My lungs are stung

with a dry, medicinal note.

The dime is gummy and cold,

shoved in a thumb-smeared slot.

The glass is scratched and old.

I’ve only got what I’ve got.

The red flag snaps into view,

a small, sharp violation sign.

The metal is rusted and blue,

and none of this time is mine.