Number 42

I am sitting in the Embassy
waiting for my number to be called.
There’s a plastic chain that divides
where the U.S. citizens sit
from where the locals sit.
I’m on the U.S. side.

Some of the people sitting with me
have lost their passports
or have had them stolen.
I am on a simple mission –
I just need a form
to prove I am receiving
my Social Security.

A stolen passport is a problem
that is easily solved,
but the people on the other side
of the plastic chain have real problems.
They want visas to come to the U.S.
A chance for a new life.
It costs them $100 to sit there
until their number is called.
That’s the visa application fee.
But only 5% get approved
and the rest lose their $100,
although they can apply again
when they have another $100.

It doesn’t cost anything to sit
on my side of the plastic chain.

The people on the other side
of the plastic chain have their own
exit door
because they usually leave angry
and disheartened,
whereas the U.S. citizens
leave relieved
with new temporary passports
so they can catch their flights
and get back home.

I like the U.S.
I like the carefully tended running paths
and regular health inspections of the
restaurants,
and all the choices of fine wine
from all over the world.

But I’m staying here
where there are no health inspections
and the only wine is a local beer.

I need the Social Security form
so I can get my residency papers.
That’s why I’m waiting,
holding my paper ticket.
Number 42.
They’re up to number 34 now.
It won’t be long.

My little Social Security benefit
will go a long way here,
much further than it would
in the U.S.

I look over the plastic chain
at the rows of people,
looking hopeful and scared.

You know why the grass is always
greener on the other side?
Because it’s not grass,
it’s money.