Impatience

Ten minutes behind someone counting coins,

nickels and dimes, and the line moans,

and the cashier's face went completely flat,

like she'd already left, like she was that

kind of ghost that haunts registers,

that counts the days like a prisoner.

The person at the counter looked up and said

they'd pay another way, and dread

filled the silence, filled the air,

and I realized I was there,

complicit in the judgment,

part of the punishment,

standing with my impatience

like I had patience,

like my time was worth more,

like I hadn't come through that door

with my own desperate days,

my own ways of counting change,

my own strange

calculus of survival.

A coin rolled away. Revival

didn't come. Just shame,

just the recognition that we're all the same,

desperate and small,

and I hated myself most of all.