AT VITAL STATISTICS
minutes stretch in day's wait
the broadness / discomfort
of flesh in the pock marked expanse
hard to breathe
hard to sit
processed
of beige tiles and rows of chairs stamped "recorder"
part of me follows the blue line
part of me, the red
zombies stagger through doorways / slips
of paper in hand
conjured up by clerical hoodoos
hidden pasts
loved ones married buried born
daydream: passing through the exit down the escalator
that does not work to the grey cement
regions where stilled autos
await ignition
in this mausoleum the hum of impatience
confinement
boredom
vague rustle, a newspaper read a dozen times
makes its way to the floor
it's done by computer. no mirrors here
this strange magic of certification / proof
of existence (we do not live until our papers
are stored, our numbers assigned)
