Written in my checkbook

In the line for the DMV all society
laid low, class flat, life didn’t prepare you
for this. The mexicans dress warmly
wait patiently, one line more for them, this line
that stretches out the door into the cold
lightly raining concrete outside, they stand
legs asplay weight evenly placed, arms folded
calm, peaceful, stoic, but you, the professor,
the manager, the soccer mom you had an
appointment, but not an umbrella how
could this happen, why do you need
to take a number?
Yet the line has you now, you
can’t return to the comfort of the SUV the
volvo the BMW you are stripped of your class
and retreat into into your cellphone until
all calls used up, hop
from foot to foot to keep warm, hoping the
next sucker with an appointment will come
you call to them it won’t work while hoping they
will find the hidden passage in and you can follow,
you eye enviously the reader of the zane gray,
the woman balancing her checkbook, then
resign yourself to reacquainting yourself with
your thoughts.

Separator image Posted in writing.