Turnstile

This city in the palm of our hands like a wet metro card

Life and death depending on how far it can get us

And this damned machine won’t take it because it is flawed,

The remains of it taken up from the gutter, with trips

Still clinging to it, but beyond redemption or claim,

And the expiration date clicking off too fast to allow

This ticket to fortune to dry, we never actually knowing

If it contains anything of value or a trip to any place

At all, after a decade from that first time selling all

We have to sell, to this, no way to climb out so we

Cling to this thing we have found, stained with the sweat

Of others who earned this ride but somehow lost it

On their way for us to find, their sweat leaving us to sweat

Over whether or not we can redeem it when it has

Been so misused, this street, this city, this vulgar landscape

We must cross to get from where we were to where we are
going, uncertain just who it is that paid the fare, as long

As someone has, and doubtful, when we stick this card

In the turnstile whether we can get through to the other side at all.