The card went in

The card went in.

The reader rejected it. Again.

The turnstile arms

stayed locked. No alarms,

just the red light

instead of the right

green. Behind me,

people were piling up. I could see

them pretending not to notice

my card. My voice

was stuck. I tried again.

The metal arms

wouldn't move. The charms

of a working commute

were lost. The route

forward was blocked.

I was locked

out in front of everyone.

I could feel them,

the line of people, the helm

of the 7am crowd

already impatient, already loud

in their silence.

I tried the card again.

Still no. I tried to maintain

some dignity, some sense

that this was just a small expense,

a technical thing,

not a public failure that would cling

to me all the way downtown.

The card went through.

The arms turned. I got through.

But I carried the red light

all day. The specific fright

of being stuck

where everyone was watching. The luck

of the turnstile finally working

didn't erase the lurking

feeling that I was

the problem. That I was

the one who couldn't move.