The first man in line can’t find his money.
He slaps at the pockets of his jeans and his jacket.
He looks behind and beside himself, then directly at me
As if I could solve his dilemma, or that I picked his pocket.
I shrug as the aroma of grease sneaks into my olfactory.
The girl in the ketchup-colored vest and bonnet
Has been waiting rather patiently.
Finally, he finds it, pulls a bill from his wallet,
Shakes his head, hands her the twenty,
And we all move a notch on this sprocket.