The line moves fast till I commit,
Then freezes as if proud of it.
Someone cuts in “just to ask,”
Suddenly patience is a task.
I rehearse speeches, none get used,
I smile politely, deeply bruised.
Justice lives in private thought,
While silence keeps the peace I bought.
The clerk leaves briefly, returns slow,
As if the queue should somehow grow.
Time stretches, morals bend,
The end feels far from where I stand.
At last my turn arrives at grace,
A triumph earned through stillness faced.
I walk away renewed, polite,
Victorious from a quiet fight.
For queues refine the soul they say,
Teaching grace in public delay.
Faith is tested, ego trimmed,
By standing still while hope feels slim.
