The Turnstile, Or, Just This Again

The heavy glass, it pushed.

Not gently. Not an invitation.

More like a slow, deliberate shoo,

a cattle-chute for people.

I leaned, I stumbled, a foot caught,

just a split-second,

but enough to feel the awkward drag,

the eyes behind, I imagined,

rolling. Or pitying. Or both.

Smudges on the pane,

fingertips, greasy ghosts,

and the mechanism groaning,

a kind of tired sigh.

Out I spilled,

into the same lobby,

the same muted hum,

feeling no more arrived

than when I went in.

Just turned.

Again.