Expired Time

Leaving the transit bench behind, I drifted along the curb toward an obsolete parking meter bolted into the concrete. Its glass dome was clouded with fine hairline scratches, framing a faded red expired flag permanently locked in place. I stepped onto the raised curb and hooked my fingers around the turn-handle, leaning my weight against the mechanism. It gave a fraction of an inch with a dry, metallic groan before jamming solid against its seized gears. Completely welded shut by weather and neglect. I rested one shoulder against the fluted iron post, watching the street remain empty. At least some things know how to refuse another dime without making an excuse for it.