The Queue

Plastic card slips from shaking hands,

a scrape and a soft, near-missed sigh.

Murmurs swell like static

under the blip and beep of scanners.

Feet shuffle—tired, tight—against worn linoleum,

a kid behind me tapping rhythms

on a chipped, plastic basket.

The woman ahead mutters, pockets empty,

fingers fumbling for a lost receipt.

Each breath grows longer, knotted,

a thread stretched too thin

between patience and collapse.

We wait,

bound by the slow pulse of the queue,

fraying nerves caught on plastic and paper,

the heartbeat of a thousand small frustrations.