The arm hung there red and white a sign

The arm hung there, red and white, a sign

of passage bought, or yet to be.

I fumbled, cars behind me in a line,

the attendant's hand waiting patiently.

His window was grimy, smudged with road,

and his face a blur beyond the glass.

I dropped the coins, a dull, metallic load,

into the metal basket, watched them pass

to him. A transaction, small and swift,

the price of moving on, a forced halt.

Then the arm lifted, a silent gift.

No time for error, no time for fault.