Yellow arrows slick with oil

Yellow arrows, slick with oil,

point to nothing new.

The air, a gray, exhaust-choked foil

for the hum, electric, through

the concrete ribs. My five-dollar bill,

a sad, wet flag, refused

by the slot. The horn, so shrill,

behind me. I felt used.

My cousin waits, a paper wristband bright,

in the lobby's sickly light.

I just want out. This airless cell,

a silent, hollow, concrete hell.