Half-turn, Half-Stop

The turnstile grinds — slow, reluctant

like a bad memory caught in rust.

A backpack leans, heavy, spilling

its burden onto the bending bars.

Click does not come. Patience slips

between chipped paint and the sputter

of a latch that won’t let me pass —

clutching the night’s weight, jumbled.

I stand pressed to the narrow metal,

shoulders tight as winter coats,

watching strangers twist through gates

while my own turn stalls, stalled.