Social Security Poem by Bill Grace

Before the doors open at 9: 00
Before the security guard tells you
Your calls must be made outside
The line is waiting.


Sitting in the great waiting room
I am 'Blue 3.'
It will determine when I am seen.
The representative is pleasant, he is young,
he is not officious. I feel welcome.
Still, even at its best, suddenly you realize you are a body.
You realize you are more frail than you ever thought you would be.
The postponement that proved a blessing.