You have no choice, but to fall in line.
It’s passenger season, says the guard.
The queue of people visiting the place
where their navels are buried looks revolting.
The shipping company has a new policy:
“First come, first served. Fall in line, please”
There’s only a single trip today. The other
vessels have been dry-docked, adds the guard.
Everybody is alarmed when the guard says
half of us will be booked as chance passengers.
Everybody rushes to the booth. Breaking the line,
attacking the ticket attendant. And in the middle
of the squabble, my yelling echoes. The mob
stomp my swollen toe due to an ingrown nail.
RAUL G. MOLDEZ