We stood single file in front of a small window
for an emotionless Indian receptionist
with a colored turban and a mustache
she looks down not staring us in the eye because
she doesn’t want to judge us. She hands us the packet
the contract telling us that there is no turning back, we cannot find a neon sign
and run. The fire exit is locked and the only way down is the elevator shaft
but that will make a scene, and we aren’t going to make a scene.
we shuffle our feet slowly
against the mucus colored carpet and we think
what would be like if we actually went along with it?
13 to 30 we stand like a unenthusiastic conga line
Not waiting for anything important like a movie ticket
or an amusement park ride feeling like clouds are in my throat
This is not like that.
My stomach acid is churning like butter with the little
water I was only allowed to drink and it tastes like skin.
I look at the clipboard, the piles of papers
asking me for my social security number,telephone number,
my insurance provider, and my name
and I don’t know
because this isn’t me.