“Queue Here” reads the sign
underneath the old railway bridge.
An arrow points towards the wall
networked with ivy, tracing mortar;
the road map of the industrial age picked out
in dark green with white-flecked veins.
The line begins to form, men and women
arguing amongst themselves, exchanging evils,
totally oblivious, so terribly ill at ease
in polyester uniforms and crumpled suits,
virgins to hand-outs clutching at tickets,
early birds to an imaginary worm.
Eventually they begin to die, they fall
at the wayside and lose their position.
“Someone’s on the way soon,” they moan
insidious bankers walk amongst them,
nudging out their pockets into invisible sacks,
grimly extracting their pounds of flesh.
Human Writes... 