Signing on

‘Supposed to be signing at ten past nine..’
‘Half two..’
‘Quarter to four..’
They line up, the taxi rank stream of obedient sheep waiting
to be called for shearing.
They’re all thinking about what’s for tea
rather than anything DWP.
Over the noise of tip tapping keyboards, tick tocking clocks
they avoid eye contact, there’s nothing to hide.
It’s all about blagging through five
minutes, waiting eagle-like for
‘Has there been any change in circumstances?’
‘No’. The signing coupon slides along the desk in slo-mo
and they raise their betting shop ballpoints to sign
for money they won’t see for three working days.