renewal

marooned
without food or drink.
nowhere to
charge your phone.
chained
to a government chair
slippery and hard
an orange peel
of plastic,
waiting
your turn for your
number to be called.
you feel older.
your beard
has grown, you are less
tall
than when you came in.
you fidget
and stare at the floor.
the room
is still. your leg has
fallen asleep.
something like a human
is behind the long counter.
you see her mouth
move, finally,
before you die, calling
out the number
to the ticket you tightly
hold.