The line snakes slow through the DMV, fluorescent hum and heat, Ticket number blinking red like a tired, skipping beat. Everybody here’s “just folks,” just waiting out their turn, But you learn to read the tells, if you’ve a mind to learn. The vampire works the graveyard shift, pale as fresh paper, thin, Stamping forms with careful hands, never looking at your skin. The werewolf says he’s pagan, got a scar upon his throat, Still smells like rain and iron, but says he starts his days with oats. The devil at the counter’s got a smile that doesn’t slip, Ash along his collar, warmth that seeps into your grip. “Next in line,” he says to me, voice smooth as polished stone, And I swear the room gets quiet when he calls you up alone. But it’s not my job to notice. It’s not my place to say. I just need my license renewed And to get through the day. Yeah, I see it. Yeah, I know. Yeah, I file it down below. There’s a line, there’s a fee, There’s a form with what I owe, And that’s enough for me. There’s a ghoul out back on cleanup, saw him changing out the bins, Swear his hands were not the same as the set he wore last week. Won’t stare, that’s not polite. You mind your eyes, your speech. In a city built on habits, you don’t go beyond your reach. Heard a lady raise a fuss once, said the clerk was “not quite right,” Said his shadow moved too slowly in the flickering strip-light. They pulled her into back rooms, came out calm, her number called, Just neatly stamped receipts, like she never spoke at all. And the thing is, forms get processed. And the lines, they mostly move. And the lights stay on at night here, Which is more than most can choose. So I see it. Yeah, I do. I see more than I should view. But I’ve got rent, I’ve got work, I’ve got things to get through, And I don't know what they’ll do. There’s a rhythm to the madness, there’s a cadence to the lie, Like a jazz band out of sync but somehow sliding by. One note off and one too sharp, but the tune mostly holds its shape, And you don’t stop mid-performance just to question what escaped. You learn the little courtesies: don’t ask, don’t linger long, Don’t correct the crooked mirror, don’t point out what's lookin' wrong. If the devil stamps it “Approved,” then you take it and you go, ‘Cause he’s faster than a human, and he always seems to know. And it’s not my job to fix it. Not my war, not my fight. I just keep my head low And my paperwork in sight. Yeah, I see it. Yeah, I know. So there’s places I won’t go. There’s a line, there’s a cost, There’s a truth I'll never show, ‘Cause I like the lights to stay aglow. Sometimes late, I catch myself, wonder what would happen if Someone pulled the whole thing open, tore apart the careful stitch? Would the vampire stop pretending? Would the wolf step out of skin? Would the devil drop his smile and let the real work begin? Would the ghoul still have a paycheck? Would the trash still disappear? Would the lines just keep on stretching while we choke on what is clear? …Or would it all just break? And it’s not my job to answer. It’s not mine to understand. I just sign where they tell me, Take the card into my hand. Yeah, I see it. Yeah, I know. I just choose to let it go. There’s a system, strange and bent, But it’s one that seems to flow, And I’ve got places I should go. So I nod, I take my number, I don’t ask what’s underneath. ‘Cause the devil at the counter... Is still kinder than his teeth.
