Click.
Snap.
A shift
Of keys and
Another man in
Pretty number form sitting in
His typewriter trying to jump free like a bat
Out of somewhere worse than where he once was, but at the same time, aching to go back, and
He wants to help him do this, but doesn’t, and his heart plays a violin and the papers are due to the boss-man at nine and he has the fate
Of a family man in his left hand, sitting there in a DMV picture by his side and smiling, smiling, picture passport green-card perfect and draped in grass, deciding fate and playing God and destroying lives and making them.