The Literary Mirror

Dawn arrives the same for every queue —
the ones who slept outside the gate all night
and the ones who paid an agent to sleep for them,
both waiting on the same official light.

Somewhere behind the glass a stamp is chosen,
one file allowed its small, unruly grace,
while ninety-nine wait, orderly, unchosen,
each morning wearing someone else's face.

I do not know which file today will open.
I only know the light will fall the same
on all of them, deserving and undeserving,
and call, by 9 a.m., the first name.