Queued
Sixty eight people hold tickets
Waiting their turn
Always waiting
For a moment at a window
A rubber stamp
A stamp of approval
Fearing rejection
Anticipating denial
Hoping for ok
Praying for approval
They all sit
Vents blow recycled semi-cool air
On angry heads
Eyeing minute hands
That blur into hours
A forty two year old man grinds teeth
Hours hours hours
Days days days
How did it come to this?
The horseman rode in his fields
The engineer built bridges out of metal
The builder pounded wood
And now
Flesh sits on pleather chairs
Under fluorescents
Scraping light
Illuminating the flaws of humanity
Three more numbers until the twenty four year old man in the baseball cap gets his turn at the window
The chance to fill out forms
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