Paper Says No

He's third in line by daybreak,

top button done up right,

and all of her reports

in a folder tied with string.

He knows the words by memory.

She couldn't make the stairs.

And the paper says no.

The window shuts at four.

Come back with better proof

that she is running out.

He built the case for months —

her scans, her stamped referrals,

her worsening in writing,

in his roundest, slowest hand.

The clerk is kind about it:

"It's nothing personal, love."

The kindness changes nothing.

And the paper says no.

A different window now.

Then approved — the stamp came through

one week too late for her.

Nobody decided this.

No one you could point to.

There is no counter for complaints

about the counters.

And the paper says no,

and never says who said so.

He keeps each one. Some day

the folder testifies.