What We Ignore

The hand came out from the toll booth,

palm up, fingers already flexing.

I placed my bills there—crumpled,

still warm from my pocket—

and felt them taken.

Glass between us. I didn't look up.

They didn't look down.

The gate lifted. Five seconds.

I used to wonder what they did

all day, taking money, lifting arms,

taking money, lifting arms.

I don't wonder anymore.

It's easier not to think about it—

the person inside that booth,

their lunch break,

their sore wrists,

the things they'll never know about me

and the things I'll never know about them.

We built this so we wouldn't have to.

I drive through that toll booth

and I'm already forgetting

what their hand looked like.