i am just another number...
i step into a room
of glossy wood facing
a number of stoic, pallid,
the stare at me, hold their chins
with their pointed fingers,
and begin to ask me
i am careful not to offend
these gods, who by all means
have blood and veins like myself,
and i cannot figure out really
except only the fact
that i am the one under
i feel like a fish for sale
a junk for disposal,
a letter to be read as they
look for lapses
of thought and syntax
and content and
they have no mercy
as they violate rule and rule upon
my own chosen propriety
like 'why do say yeah? ' say 'yes' it's proper and polite,
(but i am polite in every aspect)
'no, you're not' the old man with osteoporosis butted in.
it is a belittling experience
to a crowd like these
i am nothing but a gadget
'is he useful? ' 'will he serve our purpose? '
'does he get a backer to support his destination? '
'does anybody know him?
'can he be our tool for the next election?
and then i was told to go out
One writes me a letter. I'm not in.
That's it. For what reason i do not really know.
Who am I to them? 'Kid, you're just another number in there.
More numbers are coming for scrutiny.
And they have no mercy, no compassion at all'.
But then, when it was over, i too made a conclusion
'Who cares? '
And then here i am, free as the wind, and could not care less
as anybody else.
Perhaps, it is not my destiny.
Perhaps, God is saying, ' It is harmful for you'
'Leave it. It will do no good for you' my conscience speaks to me.
RIC S. BASTASA