The sterile violence of a government building.

Stand here.

Move there.

Sit and stare.

Turn that off.

When you first entered they made you take off your belt.

When you went to the bathroom they forced you to dip your shoe laces in urine.

You are sitting now.

Staring out over the linoleum desert.

Awaiting your turn.

At last the electronic executioner queues you up.

It is your turn to face your fate.

Perhaps they will remove your head or give you a new driver’s license.

Who can say?

You rest assured that they will do either, wall-eyed,

as though perpetually astonished

that you expect something to be done.

As you stare out over the sea of distracted bureaucrats

talking at their phones and stabbing bits of paper with really sharp pencils

you realize they are growing fatter as you watch.

It is as though they metabolize breathable air and turn it in to butt lard.

The particular troll who was serving you reappears out of thin air and announces

that you don’t have to right paperwork and that you must prepare to die now.

Her supervisor a wizened, fashionably thin woman, old as dirt,

silently and stealthily approaches.  She appears ready to call security if you don’t comply promptly.

It occurs to you to rebel but that would take too much effort.

Instead, you ask when the next set of terminations is scheduled.

You remark that you don’t want to be late and you thank the troll

for her invaluable assistance.