The Turnstile That Stuck

The subway coughs and grinds its metal teeth,

I press my card — it spins, then freezes.

A clunk — a trap snapping, catching breath —

people shuffling slow, stuck in between.

Paint peels from cold steel, chipped and worn,

a gate that says no without a word.

Behind me, footsteps sigh, frustrated,

I stand caught in a moment no one claims.