The office air is stale
numbers blink on the screen
a queue of bent shoulders
wait for their names to be called

I hand over forms, confessions
scribbled lines, work history
months collapse into each other
as though time itself was unemployed

Outside, the street does not notice
cars surge forward,
shops glow with plenty
I count coins for the bus

The word benefit tastes bitter
as if survival was a prize
as if stood still
was a luxury I had chosen

I tell myself it is temporary
but the calendar peels slowly
and the walls of the waiting room
know my face

Fabulous write, Vienna, and timely.