Another Year, Another April: National Poetry Month Day One

In the Passport Office

There are two women crying.
They are not together.
They sit rows apart
one all shuddering hair and shoulders
the other looks straight ahead
thick teardrops
rolling down each cheek.

I shift in the impossible chair
two and a half hours in but
I am prepared
two books, Sunday Times, notebook
knitting, water
lifesavers for the long wait.

The girl beside me jostles an infant
no diaper bag
not even a purse
just the child
and her papers
wrinkled, damp
clutched in her left hand.

We are compliant.
We follow the rules.
Wait for our turn
to bend our knees
toward the government issue desk
present our proof of who we are.

My mother's girlish scrawl at my birth
my father's long forgotten birthday
tiny town where I was born.

My first name
my married name
my mundane travel plans.

The mugshot photograph
I must now raise my right hand
and swear
looks just like me.