Mechanical Failure

The card reader chirps its green approval.

I lean my weight into the metal arm,

expecting the swing, the easy give,

but the machine has decided to hold its ground.

The bar hits my hip bone—a dull, dry thud

that'll be a purple bloom by tomorrow.

I’m standing in the rush-hour current

while the city tries to push through my back.

I look down at my sleeve, the good wool,

and see the smudge of industrial grease.

It's a thick, grey streak of someone else's work,

a mark that says I was here

and the gate didn't care enough to open.