The Exchange

The arm came down like a guillotine,

cut off my forward flow.

Cash only, the sign had been,

but I was too slow.

Fingers scraped the cup holder,

pulling out sticky coins,

quarters and dimes, a penny, some grime.

Behind glass, the attendant, a blur,

impatient, not a word, just a stare.

My face, I knew, was hot with shame,

as I pushed the money through the slot.

He took it, and the arm sprang high,

leaving me with a sour, stuck thought

of all the cars behind my crime.