There is no shame, they say, but I can’t help staring at my feet
holding a laminated card. Too afraid to speak out of turn, out
of line, exposing too much of me. This place doesn’t define me.

The fluorescent lights hum, like they’ve seen too much. A baby
sleeping in a carrier too big, swaddled in a sheet, but her feet
peek out— untouched by the weight that fills this room. A man

naps in his seat. Shoes scuffed, coat thin. He breathes like he’s
tired of breathing the same air that we all breathe, as we continue
to sit there. All waiting between papers and polices, waiting for
something I need— they need just to keep us going. To be living.

This is the world we live in today. This is the lobby. This is the
line between dignity and delay. And still we show up. And still,
we hope they call our name.