Marooned
for life
at the DMV,
eagerly my captive
eye seeks
poetry. But—
murky dim
carpet
and graywhite
Formica
countertops
sullied
with a
few floozy
pen marks
being, apparently,
the opium
of the imperialists
(and puritanically
weak coffee, the meth-
amphetamine)
it receives
no
good answers,
only—presently,
at the ends
of lines,
some fair-
ly pleasant
answering machines.
