Digging

Between my finger and my thumb,

a UB80 form rests - limply.

Mouth ajar, in this jungle of hope

florescent lighting, leaflets, frowns and dopes.

Big strong men, hands fit for spades

But there’s nowhere to dig now,

Apparently sow.

I listen, and learn, a first-timer -

there’s knowledgeable visitors,

The clues they share, echoing,

tugging at the peeling posters

In the salvation room .

You could do this, or you could do that

It’s up to you now, anyhow

There’s a place for you in the abstract.

Between fingers and thumbs

A tiny ticket with a number is clamped

All eyes attuned to an blinkingLED screen.

This is old-style, I’m told,

but the squat pen is better for me.

Buttons and passwords and beeps

The age of the invisible, anxiety,

Nothing written in ink.

A mark to mark this end.

I prefer the trace of paper, friend.

Security a land behind a see-through screen

However temporary, what’s it to me?

But knowing they’re all waiting in turn

for their crop to fail, and their scrub to burn,

hearts have set sail, there’s an end in sight

those electric chairs with no respite.

,

Kindly eyes, barbed wire smiles, chests tight,

digging through the supplementary stuff,

Looking for what doesn’t look right.

I’m done in, waiting .

Between my finger and thumb the squat pen rests

It’s me next, I’ll dig with it.