Standard Rate

The E-ZPass didn't beep, so I had to face

the man in the cage. His hand is a leather

glove made of skin, waiting for the bills.

Twelve dollars a day to sit in the throat

of a semi-truck, breathing in the burnt air.

Below the window, the asphalt is a shimmering

mess—an oil spill pretending it’s a rainbow.

We’re all just idling here in the gray,

burning through the light and the fuel,

paying for the privilege of moving

two inches closer to a house that's still empty.