Robin Regan | + Follow Poet |
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Queue

Am I dead? I woke up in purgatory like the dmv waiting for my number to come up 
The numbness in my mind hurts almost as bad as the tingling in my a**. 
My legs tap out the morse code of the waiting and perpetually alone.
From somewhere in the back my minds eye slaps me and tells me to sit still but my inner child flys the finger at it because sitting still might actually kill me, I might actually explode or implode or some other "plode" word that I know exists but I can't remember because my brain is sending back my inquiries return to sender.
They balance on my tongue like the breath of last nights bender,
I'm rendered speechless by the open chasm of mundane boredom, inane insane monotony openinf it's vast yawning maw to swallow me.
My hearbeat is like Chinese water torture drip drip thrump thump.

Everything is grey everything taste like beige dust, the murmuring around me is at once deafening and inarticulate.
I wait in queues because thats what I'm conditioned to do; pavlovs dog drooling over each number that brings me closer to what has now become my identity in black ink on a tiny white square. 
The closer I get to the holy numeric grail, the more I feel alive, the more anticipation in my skin the shuddering tingle in my bladder....and then...ding...my number...my alias...my mask...my let down.
I stand up like I'm programmed when the number on the screen matches the ticket in my sweaty hand, and open the door to a new queue.

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