A Shop That Sold Back Time

The till printed out my wasted minutes.
The shopkeeper cut the paper
into strips, weighed them
in a brass dish:

seven for the apology I never made,
three for the train I missed,
one minute
for the morning I told
my daughter to hurry
while she showed me
three leaves in the crack,
each smaller than her nail.

“That one costs more,” the shopkeeper said.

I traded the others for it.

Outside, shoes kept passing.
My daughter was still crouched
over the crack.
“Three,” she said.