Exact Change

The turnpike is a long, gray ribbon of regret

leading back to a house that feels too large.

I reach for the quarters I haven't spent yet,

preparing to pay the final, lonely charge.

The man in the booth is wrapped in a coat,

a blue nylon mountain in a box of thick glass.

He has a heater and a small, crumpled note,

and he doesn't care if I stay or I pass.

When our fingers touch, a spark jumps the gap,

a static reminder that we’re both still alive.

He drops the change in my palm like a trap,

and waves me on toward the rest of the drive.