Twelve Minutes

The red flag is a tongue sticking out

at the windshield. I have no more silver.

The center console is a graveyard

of sticky pennies and a paperclip I bent

into a square while I was on hold.

The rain is coming down in sheets now,

turning the sidewalk into a black river.

The scratched plastic dome of the meter is fogging up,

hiding the time I don't have.

I could run for it, but the light is wrong.

I’ll just sit here and watch the minutes

blink into nothing.

It’s cheaper to wait for the ticket

than to step out into that much gray.