The Queue

A weird idea, I guess. If I get inspired enough I may revise a little. It seems short.

Standing in wait

For what, I could not fathom an answer,

And I don't imagine those ahead know.

 

The queue appears endless.

But, to my comfort, endless in either direction.

So I wait patiently

In a disquieting lack of interaction.

 

For a moment it's realized,

Realized without response or action,

That we were not in surrounding.

We lay in formation,

Illuminated figures without light.

On what we stand, I could not tell you.

(This moment passes without mourning,

And soon our thoughts are again patient curiousity.)

 

A cough,

Resounding to asseverate,

But serving not to break the silence

In which it is swallowed.

My attention, at this, is taken in firm.

Mine alone, it seems.