You pay in all your working life

till the day you comb your thinning hair

and head into the Claims Dept

birth certificate in hand

to retrieve your money, please.

 

They speak in loud voices

as if you are demented

they do not know how hard you worked

how weary you feel or understand

the labyrinth which brought you

face to face with this uncivil servant.

 

He asks if you have

committed heinous crimes

against your country,

you defend yourself

politely, as the only crime

you can recall is aging.

 

He tells you in a droning monotone

that you will get less money because you have

come too early, or arrived too late,

and very soon, when they run out

you will get nothing.

 

On the bus ride home,

you notice the strong putrid

smell of bureaucracy

being blown away

by gusts of exhaust you

no longer have to breathe

on someone else's schedule.

 

© by Anita S. Pulier.

Used with the author's permission.