Folded Punishment

The ticket curled beneath the wiper blade,

orange and crumpled like a tired flag.

My footsteps slowed, each step a countdown

between the cart and the car.

Rain dragged the ink into blurry confession,

words stitched tight with a wrong-place, wrong-time judgment.

I bent, peeled it free—edges damp and folded,

proof I broke a rule without trying.

The city’s quiet punishment—

a slip of paper that costs more than coin,

a reminder taped like a scar to my morning.

Maybe tomorrow I'll park somewhere safer,

but today this paper burns with the stink of wrong turns,

a thin slash on the glass, a badge of carelessness,

folded like regret

and sealed with the rain.