Entry Fee

The glass is thick with years of soot.

I scan the tag, it doesn't blink.

The man behind the pane is mute,

I'm forced to stop and forced to think.

The concrete basin's dark with grease,

a sticky grave for copper rounds.

I'm short a quarter for my peace,

and everyone's making angry sounds.

He stares until I find the dime

pressed flat against the seat-track rail.

It’s just another tax on time.

The gate goes up. I'm slow and frail.