The Glass Cycle

Someone pushed too hard, a shoulder near,

and spun me in, fighting a sudden fear.

The polished brass, a cold, hard line,

then my own face, reflected, mine.

Again, the street, a blurred, quick glance,

a window, then another chance

to see the same, the coming back,

the well-worn groove, the familiar track.

I put my hand against the glass,

feeling the push of it, as moments pass.

Round and round, no clear way out,

just the same entrance, without a doubt.

And people waiting, eager, quick,

while I just circle, feeling sick

with this motion, going nowhere fast,

a present moment built to last

too long, too wide, too much the same.

Just a turning door, a forgotten name.