Inertia at the Gantry

The city is a clock that hates my face.

I’m sweating through a blazer I can’t afford,

running toward a job that feels like a race

I’ve already lost before I’m even on board.

I swiped the card and felt the click of green,

but the metal bar was rooted in the floor.

I hit the iron hard, a jolt so mean

my hip bone rattled like a slammed-shut door.

A purple welt is rising in the dark,

a bloom of blood beneath the cheap gray wool.

While strangers drift through like a public park,

I’m stuck here in the jam, a frantic fool.

The world just spins and leaves me in the gate,

bracing for a blow I didn't see.

It isn't just the train that makes me late;

it’s the way the hardware won't cooperate with me.