Here is a poem I wrote:

 15¢

A little black and white sign 

on some sort of machine,

Boldly announces its services 

 cost fifteen cents.

 I try to make sense of 

 the panel of blue buttons,

The beeping black slot,

The glinting silver rectangle.

I want to go closer, to examine

this tall, metal mystery

But I’m stopped, not only by

the man and boy sauntering by,

commenting on my t-shirt, 

which says “Colts” 

I really hate football, 

that’s not the point.

 But also by some twisted thought,

from my convoluted brain,

suggesting that if I got up,

someone would see me and wonder

what on earth I would want with a 15¢

sticker, or the structure it belonged to,

Especially since I do not have pockets,

which might contain fifteen cents.

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