The Jam

The meter maid is clicking her heels

two cars down by the bakery door.

I’m digging through lint and old receipts

scrambling across the floor.

I find the nickel and the silver dime

and shove them toward the slot.

But some kid’s wad of peppermint gum

is hardened in a gray-green knot.

The rusted iron neck of the thing

is leaning toward the drain.

It won't take my money, it won't let me go,

standing there in the rain.