The Fee

Eight months off. Second week back.

I know how that math goes.

Cold morning. The street I know.

Halfway through the third block—

copper, sitting on the back of the tongue.

I slowed.

The street kept going without me,

other people at their pace,

and I had my hands on my knees

and my breath in the air in front of me.

The taste just sat there.

I spat. Nothing in it.

Which means the blood was a message,

not a wound—the body

billing me for the eight months off.

I walked the rest of the way home.

The shame was specific:

not the taste, not the stopping,

but the street.

That particular street.

Those particular people

keeping their particular pace.