Keep the Change

Two of the booths were coned off, dead,

and I took the last open lane by feel.

The attendant had one arm spread

flat on the ledge. That fluorescent, unreal

toll-plaza light. Then the sign —

LAST WEEK in marker on a piece of box,

taped to the inside glass. The kind of line

you write as a joke until the calendar locks

it in for real. I handed over the fare.

He counted back into my palm.

I looked at the sign. He was aware

of that. Ten seconds, then the calm

of the accelerator.

The change still in my cup holder at five.