Six Minutes Left

The drizzle is thin as a spider’s thread,

and I’m digging for silver I’ll never find.

The meter is hungry, it needs to be fed,

but the pockets of my jeans are being unkind.

The mechanical click was a hollow sound,

the red plastic flag jumped up in the slot.

The meter maid’s car is making its round,

checking the lines for the space that I got.

Expired is a word that looks like a threat

when you’re standing in the rain and you’re already wet.