We’ve all taken numbers
from the red machine on the wall.
Above, red periods on a screen
combine into figures
that put our time in its place;
we wait and wait
efficiently.
Who isn’t here with us?
The Powers have pulled our every
ancestor into these plastic seats.
Nothing that went before is left
behind Administration.
Maybe it will happen—
the old magazines, the texted
screams, the red machine
will be redeemed by someone else
in line. It wouldn’t be the first
time for such a hope.
Suddenly noses get hit
with barnyard. The universe
narrows to a point. People
shift but cannot move.
And just into this
here and now
(would you believe it?)
is born a Child.