People tell me it’s Markov’s city

An ahistorical city,

Everyone new lined up,

Short line, long line, next.

Always next.

Everyone old is waiting, trapped or relieved.

The unsettled increasingly move

Their unsettling rattles neighbors

Their moves make me shudder.

I might be them,

I should listen,

But always I do look past them

I can acknowledge

Almost certain

Yet always I do look past them.