Line Harvest

The line never seems to end.

Infernal queue, endless line
like stars strewn in galactic arm,
like fire ants marching warlike
in Brazil, as here I tarry
alone though flanked front
and back by men with vests
or others sporting polo shirts,
and even one inside an orange
sweater loud as a foghorn.
He turns his head to peer,
a swarthy chap, loose flesh
block face and I in pique
shift feet to spell each leg,
to let the lumbar loll a bit,
to let it fresh from muscle
strain as I assess eternity
where human beings idle on.
A hint of Old Spice wafts
yet day‘s-old tee shirts too;
I pause my want to mangle
peace, and thus I fiddle dimes
and nickels pocket bound,
recoil hand and forearm like
St. Elmo’s fire flamed a seam.
A nickel falls, clacks ping-like,
rolls as if motion proved
a blessing, finds a path
among in place feet
because I care not
of money matters.
I browse the staid
of Cosmos; herein
a line requires life,
presents the River
Styx
in turbulent flow,
and scuffs these pale
Caucasian cheeks
like so much forty
grit sandpaper.

40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
7-9-16