I Tapped Through

He tried it once, then tried it twice.

The turnstile beeped and held.

The third time wasn't any nicer.

The fourth time, something felled

whatever hope the card still carried.

He stepped aside and stood,

his hand still on the bar, and tarried

longer than he should

have needed just to let it go.

The line pressed in behind.

The agent in the booth, head low,

was otherwise inclined.

I tapped. The arm swung free. I went.

I didn't say a word.

He didn't ask. I took the descent,

my shoes on tile. I heard

myself all the way down the stairs—

the ordinary sound.

He was still standing, still up there.

I didn't turn around.