An Afternoon of Permissions
The queue moved like syrup down a cooled plate—
each form a hush between fingers,
an apology printed on recycled gray.
Behind the glass, a woman with lips
like quotation marks speaks in numbers—
Room 14C, Identity Verification,
room of fluorescent hums and
panting floor vents, the minister of paper
stands with a rubber stamp and
the smell of microwaved fish.
You forget the smell of seasons
in these hallways; love becomes
a checkbox, intimacy an app requiring updates.
Small screens bloom like algae
across trapped skin.
In the elevator somebody coughs
in Morse; you wonder if the message
is urgent, or merely polite despair,
another variation on the national anthem
hummed into the collar.
Eventually, all the machines in the building
turn toward you and blink.
You haven’t been born yet,
but your file has.
—The Clergyman