The Booth at the End of the Hall

The rain had turned the parking lot to slate.

I stepped into the gym, the smell of wax

and damp wool coats, a heavy, quiet weight

of people standing in their weathered macs.

They handed me a pen with chewed-up plastic.

I found the stall, a flimsy cardboard screen

that wobbled like a thing made of elastic

while I tried to decide what it could mean.

I checked a box. The ink was quick to dry.

I waited for the rush, the sudden flare

of feeling like a man who has a say,

but only smelled the gym-mats in the air.