The Gatekeeper

The guy in front is swiping a dead piece of plastic,

and the tension in the tunnel is getting drastic.

We are a herd of coats and tired eyes,

waiting for the metal to grant us a prize.

I push too soon and the bar bites my hip,

a cold, iron reminder of a sudden slip.

My palm finds the sheen of the stainless steel arm,

where a million strangers have offered their palm

to the grease and the grind of the city's machine.

I’m just another body in the spaces between.