for the queen of DMV window E3
waiting to hear the petitions
of the pitiful peasants
soon to be granted an audience
he sat in a bucket seat, a holding cell
for a prisoner of the bureaucracy
waiting to present his
probation papers
for approval
he was number 11
she hated her job, a dead end
9 to 5 boring routine
that provided a living
while draining away the days
of her life, youknowwhatImean
he hated this chore, an infringement
on his liberty, stealing his time
even if just a few hours
as they both waited
the electric sign above
window E3 flashed the number 11
a mechanical female voice
announced: "Now serving number eleven
at window E three"
Responding to the voice, he jumped
to his feet, his eyes searching
for window E3, thinking
that the word "serving"
was a nauseating euphemism
barely awake despite
recent drug infusions from
coffee and cigarettes she
watched him walk hesitantly
toward her window, he
must be number 11
the "good morning" greeting
that he was able to manufacture
almost sounded sincere, which
in was not,
and it was not a good
morning for either of them
she responded with an accusatory
"May I help you?"
he could smell the distaste
on her breath for the irritation
standing before her
he lost his registration
and needed a new copy
what an idiot she thought
displaying her superior knowledge
of DMV forms she told him he had
not filled in section C of DMV 4017
filled it in for him, directed him to the cashier
now she was puffed
on her own petty power
with that feeling you get
after confession and five Hail Mary's
be approached the line at the cashier's window
while a mechanical female voice said
"Now serving number fifteen at window E three"
(c)Frank Kozusko 2010
from The Man in the Moon has no Testicles
Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA
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