Turnstile Screams in Brooklyn

I walk to the G train with my yarn and my dreams. But the turnstile

is screaming, or maybe it's me. Zora promised us freedom,

a bus with no fee. But the MTA's budget is a

macro aggression, you see. 10 cents is a mountain, a wall,

and a cage. It's a direct assault on my Brooklyn crochet. It's a three-dollar

violence, a transit gate crime. They're stealing my aura one dime

at a time. I'm sitting on the concrete, I'm screaming at the

sky. The patriarchy's transit is making me cry.