What Won't Turn

My card wouldn't read.

The red X kept appearing,

kept telling me no,

kept telling everyone behind me

that I was the problem,

that I didn't belong on this train,

that something about me

wasn't right, wasn't acceptable,

wasn't—

I tried again.

Tapped it harder, like the machine

was just being stubborn,

like it didn't understand

what I was trying to do.

Red X.

Again.

Behind me, the line was forming.

I could feel it, the weight of it,

the collective frustration,

the people who had their cards working,

who had their lives organized enough

to maintain a working transit card,

who didn't need the attendant

to let them through the side gate

like they were an exception,

like they were broken.

I stepped aside.

The attendant unlocked it,

let me through manually,

and I felt every eye

tracking me as I walked toward the platform,

as I became the person

who couldn't figure out the turnstile,

the person who held everyone up,

the person who had to be helped,

who had to be let in,

who was failing

at the simplest thing—

getting on the train.