waiting in line at the bank
not unlike waiting in line at the:
grocery store
racetrack
theatre
unemployment line
urinal.
avoiding each others glance
as tellers end each transaction with “Have a Nice Day”
pretending they give a purple shit about any of us.
self-consciously shifting from foot to foot
feigning the examination of our hoped for transactions
united in our hate for the dandy
in the double breasted blue pinstriped suit who is
flirting with the big titted blonde teller at window number three.
the old lady behind me whispers, ”Isn’t it awful young man.
There are only two teller windows open
and three tellers are on lunch break?”
I ask her to save my place while I talk to the bank
manager with a green dress so big it looks like an awning
I ask her if she can open another window
“You seem to be the only one who minds waiting in line,”
she hisses through a screen of bad breath as strong
as any pile of horse shit in a barn.
I turn to the long line of my fellow captives and ask with vigor
born from frustration,” Do you mind waiting in line?”
“Yes,” some respond timidly.
“Are you sure you mind waiting in line?”
“Yes,” more respond now with a louder clamor.
“Because the manager told me
I’m the only one who wants faster service.”
“No! We want service! We want service!” the line chants
frenetically like thirty two Al Pacino’s screaming "Attica! Attica!"
The manager summons two more tellers and the line in the bank
dissolves as fast as food at a homeless shelter
no longer united, we are strangers again
free to give each other the finger in traffic as we go back to work.