Standard Rate

The clink of the quarter is the only sound

before the gate lifts its mechanical arm.

I’m part of the rhythm, the gray daily round,

far away from the risk and the harm.

At 7:14, the sun hits the glass

and the steering wheel gives a sharp shudder.

I know where the cracks in the asphalt will pass

and the tilt of the concrete gutter.

It’s a tax on the morning, a debt to the miles,

paid out in silver and patience and carbon.

I drive past the exits and the rusted-out piles

of the life I have stopped being part in.