the d m v

you have been
to the abyss,
into the smoldering
ring of fire,
the seventh layer
of hell.
you stood in the line
outside
to get through
the door to the line
inside, in
order to find an
empty plastic red chair
to wait in.
a woman made of stone
handed you a ticket
stub with a number,
and a letter attached
they called out A23,
your number was
R 339 to be exact.
you settled in and
listened to the drone
of the robotic voice
speak each number
three times, then
again. and with the
others you bent over
tossing aside
the spider webs which
grew and stared at the black
inked number
that was your own.
Shirley Jackson
must have been here
at some point in her
life. how could she
not be.
after three hours,
you looked up at the clock
and only ten
minutes had passed.
the seasons changed.
women gave birth,
grown men cried into
their hands.
an ambulance pulled
up to take the dead
and dying quietly away,
moaning,
still clutching their
numbers, as if
they could possibly renew
their registrations.