He stands in line like a trusting child

 Who dares not ask permission. Envelope

In a tight-white hand, held to his chest.

 

An electronic voice, dog-like and flat,

Summons the line forward a step.

His overcoat is unraveling like an old flag,

And his thoughts are too: torn things,

Out of place, which is why he has them

Quarantined in stiff manila A4.

 

The card is crumpled from weeks jammed in pockets,

Dumped in drawers, used as beermats, coffee

Coasters, never posted because he cannot,

Even now. Every word of his is a violation

And the illuminated numbers, knifelike, are

Poised to cut him short and correct him

And then this awful voice directs him

Another pace towards the counter.

He takes it like he’s stepping off a cliff

And trembles, as all furtive, shrinking

Creatures will, in sight of the horizon.