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Amy MacLennan | The Toll CollectorEach night he mans
the same booth, number two
from the right. No radio, no TV,
just a bay wind slicing
through that slim window,
bulbs on cable pulsing
red and blue as cars crawl past,
coins or bills pressed
into his hand. Every face
spent. When morning
closes in, his fingers inky
from cash, veils of fog
drop across the lanes,
swirl around each tower.
Tail lights fade into the haze.
He’s not sure how
the span takes the weight.
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