Together
we waited,
a gigantic
line of hot
bodies, waiting
all day long,
waiting to get
inside the damn
art museum.
We waited there,
people from all
over, some young,
some old; some
beautiful and sexy,
others dull to look
at, but really we
accepted each
other with smiles
and foot taps.
It was all part
of the plan.
What does it
matter that
a minute felt
like an hour?
It was fine.
We were waiting
with one another,
even though we
didn’t want to be
near each other.
Around the corner,
where the line
could not see,
in a mode of
temptation and
jubilation,
a gospel choir
sang and chanted
about being in a life
down by some river.
They were down
by this river, and
they were happy
about their very
green situation.
Also green,
this time with
a more hesitant
form of envy,
the people
who were recently
decapitated
from the line
going inside the
museum walked
to the choir and
clapped along,
though they weren’t
river people at all.
And they were
no longer part
of our line either,
two black communities,
excommunication
and banishment,
even though
the headless ones
were in, and the
line folks were out.
Our line of people,
gigantic and bored,
green with sickness,
waited to see
the choir but
then they stopped
their performance,
right when we really
reached our peaks.
The river must
have dried up
like a dead snake,
with all that dusty
terrain to think about.
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