Stall at 14th Street

The card reader blinks its little red eye

and tells me I’m a liar.

The metal bar punches me right in the hip,

a dull, heavy thud through my soaked coat.

Behind me, the crowd is a single, warm lung

exhaling their impatience against my neck.

I swipe again. And again.

The rain is dripping off my nose

and the turnstile is the only thing in this city

standing perfectly, stubbornly still.