day THIRTY TWO

stamps

americans only know tragedy

when sports teams lose the big game

or standing in line at the post office

and there is a big line in this one

and people are sweating and cursing

looking at their phones and watches

as if there is somewhere of intrigue to actually go to

looking at the big clocks down both ends of the office

like it’s times square in alcatraz this morning

of course there are only two tellers on duty

and two of the customers are ready to duke it out

at the express window

but i was here first, one says

into this big vacuous void of apathy

some people just have no respect, the other says

well, some people don’t know

how to take turns, the other one retorts

and on and on and on like relearning the wheel

of fourth grade recess bitterness and contempt

until someone in line tells them both to shut the fuck up

and we shuffle at the invective

looking like gray waves at a sad and empty beach

you can smell a riot in here this morning

the earthy mist of moss before a microburst pops off

some of us won’t make it out alive

some of us won’t make it out with our souls intact

some of us have sports teams that will carry us

and that will be enough to call this game a life

it used to be that the world

gave you a bit of privacy,

one says to the other

it used to be that people were competent

enough to pay their bills on time, the other says to the other

they blend in like a perfect violence

and when the bell rings i step to the teller like a dazed prize fighter

having no clue why i entered this ring in the first place

two dozen sets of eyes on me

waiting to see what misery i will throw down

then she says, can i help you?

so i say, a book of stamps

a book of stamps with anything on it

but that goddamned american flag.

                 -- John Grochalski