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Queues

Crowded

It was all elbows, pushing and shoving,

jostling and poking,

kneeing and trampling.

I can’t remember now what we were

queuing for -

but there we were, all of us,

vying for position,

each one wanting to be number one.

The heat didn’t help

pounding down, sapping every last ounce

of energy,

and reason and common sense too!

We were all adults, yet we couldn’t resist

the lottery of the scrum.

I remember the sweat dripping down,

and the longing for a drink was overwhelming!

Sensible people take a siesta or sit down in the shade

at this time of day;

but no, like people possessed

we gathered there,

as if our very lives depended on being

the first person in that queue:

pushing and shoving,

jostling and poking,

kneeing and trampling.

 

And then you came into

the morass that makes up our lives:

the squabbling, the fighting,

the fears and the doubts.

You came.

You didn’t need to say anything.

You just stood there,

with your calm serenity and authority

oozing out of every pore.

We stood like soldiers to attention.

Someone muttered something

- like a school boy mouthing off a teacher -

and someone else gave him a withering stare.

The jostling and shoving

didn’t matter any more.

What do queues matter?

“Lord, would you like to be first?” someone shouts.

But you decline.

 

And you smile

because you knew along that

being first in all the queues in all the world

is an empty plate

besides all the riches you offer.

Being first

Is like a cracked jewel in a tarnished setting:

It means nothing;

It’s not worth having.

And even being last -

well, that’s a privilege too,

in your company.

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