In Line
Dec 9 2009


We wait,
keeping our place
in line.
Make polite conversation,
glance at our watches,
affect the insouciant posture
of cosmopolitan man —
awkward hands
holding-on to our partner’s,
or slipped into pockets
self-consciously.

The impatient ones
push that little bit closer
bunching-up.
And we are uncomfortable
with this violation of personal space,
the cool distance
a northern people
have wordlessly agreed upon.

While the complacent ones
shuffle ahead
step-by-step.
And the deferential
make note of scofflaws
who break into line;
but can only glare
in silence.

It’s this gritting grinding reticence
that infuriates me
waiting in line behind them.
But I, too, clench my teeth
bite my tongue
keep silent,
eyes boring into their backside.
Because there can be no self-indulgent outbursts
here
on the sidewalk, at night,
in our long proletarian coats
salt-stained boots
hunkered-down in the cold.
Where considerate voices
murmur softly, exhaling fog,
chuckle at tasteful jokes.

This is the rough equality of lines
— the rules, unspoken;
the belief in progress
however slow.
And at the end
a lighted wicket, a paper ticket,
general admission
the evening show.

I always favour the aisle —
extra room to stretch my legs;
shimmying-up the plush spring seat
as strangers enter, exit.

Lines
drawn between us.
Lines drawn to connect
2 distant points.