we had been standing in line for hours.
our good, respectable clothes had long gone from
neat and pressed
to
wrinkled
limp and sweaty.

they take us in
one by one
and ask us questions
that make us stumble and nervously
fidget while they scribble notes and
raise eyebrows, waiting for us,
to show them
why we
deserve (out of all the other unwashed fools)
to work
for them.

when it's done we thank them for
their time, even though they never thank us
for ours.
and that night
they pick and choose
they skim over and laugh at bad handwriting
and the clothes we wore.

at the end of our day, we
the line of prospects,
lay in our beds,
in our homes,
praying to be chosen.
praying to ascend from this
depressing nothingness
to leave empty days
and worrisome nights
far behind.

and when that phone call doesn't come
we (because there are always far more left behind then chosen.)
shrink.
defeated and deflated,
we wipe our bleary eyes
and shuffle onto the next line.
trying like hell to
polishing up those old shoes
and stitching together that good blouse
hoping to get one more solid use out of them before
they fall apart.