I had gotten used to the lines by now.

I no longer felt the eagerness to ride.

The exhilaration seemed unappealing and mertilus.

The two minute thrill became unproportionate to the two hour wait.


On and On and On I walk.

Waiting for my turn.

Picking which line would be best to wait in.


The longer line (in the front) with the most fulfillment

or the shorter line in the middle, home to many more passengers obstructing my view.

I see the children tugging their parents into these shorter lines, not caring about what experience awaits them.

I chose the longer line.

I care no more about how fast reach my destination than I care about the penny on the concrete underneath me.


This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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