The interstate has chewed my nerves to lace

The interstate has chewed my nerves to lace.

I’m fumbling in the console’s plastic tray

for silver coins to buy a little space

and move along the concrete right-of-way.

The driver back there taps his glowing brakes.

I find a nickel buried in the lint.

The booth attendant waits for what it takes

with eyes as cold and grey as weathered flint.

His gloved and thickened hand is reaching out,

a puffy blue against the winter mist.

He doesn't care what I am here about.

I drop the metal in his frozen fist.