Late always late fumbling in the dark

Late, always late, fumbling in the dark

for quarters, buried deep beneath the seats.

That yellow light, a solitary spark,

blinking slow between the concrete streets.

The clang of metal, the machine's gulp,

the little arm lifting with a wheezing sound.

Another twenty-five cents, another gulp,

for the privilege of getting where I'm bound.

It always feels like paying for a sin,

or maybe just the weight of getting on.

That brief exchange, the way you pay to get in,

then it's just the road, the gray before the dawn.