The Queue by Bruce Morton

We stand, move on cue.

We stand in queue.

Our position is

Is no more subtle than

The proposition itself.

We shuffle.

We wait.

We shuffle.

We wait.

It is something

We all do

We must do

As we wait,

As we must,

To get our 

Ticket punched.

It is dumb. We think,

We wonder, we speculate,

Raise voice and gesticulate; 

Articulate why and how we are

In this line in the first place.

It does not matter, we are

Here. Here we are.

Let anyone cut ahead?

The speedsters and hipsters

So in a hurry, so cool,

Always living on the edge.

Sure, why not, let them.

Please. Even if, because,

It slows the queue, but,

Then, finally, we are there.

We must pay the price

Of admission

To the next show,

Only to discover

The stage is staged,

The play played

Offering something,

Not advertised.

There are no reviews

And it never closes

We hear one line at a time,

Never knowing the next.

Never knowing what 

Act it is. It always is

In the moment,

Of the moment,

Of no moment.

We may imagine

That we can imagine

Past or future, per script,

Distracted by commotion 

Or gripped by emotion—

Or not. And wondering where

And how to exit the theater— 

Stage right? What is left?

We shuffle.

We wait.

We shuffle.

We wait.

And, oh--there are no rain checks.

Such is life.

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Bruce Morton splits his time between Montana and Arizona. His volume of poems, Simple Arithmetic and Other Artifices, appeared in 2015. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in various magazines and anthologies including, most recently, Muddy River Poetry Review, Mason Street Review, The Lake (UK), Main Street Rag, Nixes Mate Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Blue Unicorn. He was formerly Dean of Libraries at Montana State University.