Fine Print

I was only gone for three minutes.

Now there’s a blaring orange envelope

pressed against the glass like a flat tongue.

I reach for it and the rain runs down my arm,

soaking my shirt at the shoulder.

Forty dollars for a moment of laziness.

I look at the fine print through the water.

I have to decide which bill to ignore now.

It’s my own fault.

It’s always my own fault.