Buying Eleven Minutes

The rain is turning the asphalt into a mirror

and the digital eye is blinking red,

a countdown of three minutes until I’m a criminal

in the eyes of the city and the law.

I’m digging through the lint in my cupholder

searching for a silver disc to buy some peace.

I find a nickel, sticky with spilled soda,

and try to shove it home.

But the slot is jammed with another man’s failure,

a coin stuck sideways like a stubborn tooth.

I stand there in the wet, arguing with a machine,

feeling the fifteen-dollar dread

settle into the small of my back.