What the grate keeps

The keys went down through the grate

like the grate was hungry.

Metal bars cutting light into strips,

and below that,

the tunnel,

the dark,

the place where things

go when they fall

in cities that don't care.

I stood there.

Someone stepped on my foot

while I was looking down.

They didn't apologize.

The station kept moving.

That's what cities do—

they move through you,

not around you,

not with any awareness

that you exist.

The MTA lost and found was fluorescent

and empty.

The worker didn't look up.

My keys were gone.

I've lived here eight years.

The city has never once

acknowledged me.

Not once.

I pay rent.

I take the subway.

I follow the rules.

And the city just swallows

what I need,

spits out nothing,

keeps moving.

There are thousands of us down there

in the tunnels—

keys,

wallets,

gloves,

all the small things

we thought we couldn't lose

but did.

All the small things

that fell through the bars

and disappeared

into the indifference

of a place

that was never ours

to begin with.

I got new keys.

They still fit

in the locks

I'm renting from a landlord

who will never know my name.

The city doesn't care.

The city has never cared.

I'm still here.

I'm still walking

through it,

getting stepped on,

dropping things,

disappearing

one small loss

at a time.