The Fine Print

I only parked for fifteen minutes—

fifteen—

and the sign was half-hidden by the branch

of a tree that doesn't care about legality,

so the orange slip

was waiting under my wiper

like a judgment

typed in black ink and spite.

Seventy-five dollars.

I stood there in the street

holding this small rectangle,

reading the same numbers twice,

as if the second reading

would change the amount,

would make it reasonable,

would explain

how the city decided

that my fifteen minutes

deserved this,

that my mistake

belonged to them now,

that the tree and the sign

were in cahoots,

designed to teach me

that I don't matter,

that my time

is just money

waiting to be collected.

The city doesn't care.

The city has never cared.

I parked in the wrong spot

and the city was there

waiting for it,

patient and indifferent,

ready to take

what it was owed

for my attention

wandering for

fifteen minutes.

I'm still holding the ticket.

I can't throw it away.

I can't pay it either.

I can only stand here

learning what the city thinks

I'm worth.