What I Meant Was

Six months now. The train is late

and here it comes—

her hand pulling the card back from the reader.

She was short a few dollars.

I saw the number on the screen

and said it's fine, I've got it,

in that tone I use

when I've decided a thing

isn't really a problem.

Her face closed.

She said thank you to the floor.

The conveyor kept moving.

I took my receipt.

I've thought about what I should have said—

something with a pause in it,

something that let the embarrassment

be embarrassment

instead of an issue I'd resolved.

The automatic door blew cold behind me.

I walked to my car.

I put on my seatbelt.

I thought: you could have just said nothing.