The Fine

I switched the coats when the cold finally broke.

Found it in the pocket, folded once.

Orange carbon. Ink smeared on the lower half.

Badge number still legible, by some chance,

or just the cold preserving what it held.

The date was at the top in small black type.

I knew it right away. That street. That morning.

The meter I'd ignored, or the signage, striped

and easy to miss. I couldn't say now which.

I paid the fine. I thought I'd cleared the rest.

But standing in the hallway with the paper

I felt that morning sitting in my chest—

the kind of cold that isn't temperature.

I folded it back up. Didn't throw it out.