I approach the 42nd St. subway station,
Which is screaming in agony as impatient MTA riders swarm the system.
Faceless pedestrians pass me by as I open my wallet to retrieve my MetroCard,
Careful to avoid dropping valuables.

The people aren’t the only ones with a mildly annoyed air —
The frustrated trains try to trudge towards the next stop,
Adding to the metallic cacophony emanating from this underground empire.
The payment system reigns with a metal fist over everyone around,
So not a sound is heard by those who avoid being found.

The city’s heartbeat pulsates through veins of transit,
With the turnstiles serving as the valves that open and close, singing, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.
I slide the thin card through the cantankerous reader,
Moving forward before a verdict is reached on the validity of my payment,
But my movement is halted by the turnstile that refuses to turn
After the reader emits a grumble of mechanical disapproval.

I yearn for the seamless waltz of swift entry,
An achievement rare to come by since the card reader resists the choreography of my swipe.
I silently thank the reader’s obstinate decline
For making me pause and appreciate the typical efficiency of the subway system.
I rescan and watch as the white and green are briefly obscured by a fleeting grey,
From which my MetroCard emerges victorious
And I’m given permission to continue silently appreciating the quotidian.