The glass pushed me I didn't push it

The glass pushed me. I didn't push it.

Just stepped in, assumed the fit

would be easy. It's always a trick,

that door, making you quick.

Cold metal on my hand, then cold glass

at my back, moving too fast.

Or not fast enough. Just this spin,

and the same three faces trying to get in.

They look confused, or annoyed,

like I'm somehow deploying

this circle. But I'm just caught,

a fly in a bottle, overwrought.

And out, then in, then out again,

the same air, the same wind.

Just a repeated motion,

a dull, constant notion.