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The plastic card is thin as a secret,

a stripe of rust that won't speak to the machine.

I swipe until my wrist feels weak,

while the man behind me vents his spleen

in a long, hollowing sigh.

Three-pronged iron against my hip,

a metal lock that refuses to fold.

I’m the hitch in the morning’s grip,

the one who can't do as they're told.

I say sorry to the back of a neck.

I say sorry to the tile and the light.

Everything moves like a deck

of cards shuffled too tight,

leaving me pinned by a blunt, silver bar.