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The following poem won second place in the 1995 Henderson contest for haiku, sponsored by the Haiku Society of America, and was first published in Frogpond18:4, Winter 1995. Ruth Yarrow’s appreciation for “toll booth” appeared on Troutswirl, the blog for the Haiku Foundation (also known or now known as “Virals”), on 4 February 2010, where it generated an extensive discussion. See also “Toll Booth Lit for Christmas” by Allan Burns, “Toll Booth Lit for Christmas” by Paul Miller, and “Toll Booth Lit for Christmas” by Karen Sohne and Bill Pauly.
by Ruth Yarrow
toll booth lit for Christmas—
from my hand to hers
warm change
—Michael Dylan Welch
I find this poem full of contrasts and of hope. The contrasts include the lighted booth in the early dark of a December evening, the coins warmed by his hand reaching out into cold Christmas weather, and the warmth of the connection in what is a very impersonal fleeting monetary exchange. The hope I feel in this poem comes from the light in the darkness, the hope of the season, the reach across what may be class and race as well as gender lines, including the smile and thanks I assume are there. And that last line has so many reverberations. We are all humans, giving us the potential to connect with warmth. We have the potential to change the global messes we are in if we make those connections. I admit this is laying a lot on a short poem—maybe far too much. But the feelings of connection, warmth and hope are all in that moment, and after all, emotions are what makes any poem poetry. Thanks, Michael. +
I posted the following comment to the Virals 5.5 blog on 6 February 2010, where the poem received much discussion in response to Ruth Yarrow’s appreciation.
This poem was inspired by stopping at the toll booth to cross the San Mateo Bridge [on 15 December 1993]. It’s one of seven major bridges in the San Francisco Bay Area. It’s not nearly as famous as the Golden Gate or Oakland Bay bridges, but it’s by far the longest [it was the world’s longest bridge when it first opened in 1929]. I was on the Hayward side, heading west to where I lived in Foster City. At the time, I think the toll was 75 cents, and while waiting for several cars ahead of me to pay the toll, I held three quarters in my hand [per the bridge’s Wikipedia page, in 1993 the toll was actually $1.00, so I held four quarters]. By the time I paid the toll, they were warm, and I became conscious of that warmth at the moment I gave the coins to the toll collector. My hand brushed her hand, and I felt that her hand was cold. We both smiled. As I drove away, I wondered if she had noticed the warmth in the change.
Actually, I originally wrestled with this poem, wondering if it would be better as “from her hand to mine.” I don’t feel one has to stick with the exact details of original experience (one is, after all, creating a poem, not a diary entry), but in this case I decided to stick with “from my hand to hers” although I’m not sure why (the rhythm is essentially the same either way). Other than that consideration, this was an easy poem to write.
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