Validation

The fluorescent tubes are humming a low B-flat.

My fingers are soft from the sink in Room 412,

too damp to feed the machine.

The five-dollar bill keeps spitting back out,

wrinkled and rejected, like me.

I look down at the concrete ramp.

The oil stains have bled into dark continents,

a map of a country where no one sleeps.

The gate stays down. I’m stuck in the exhaust,

waiting for the sensor to believe I've paid enough.