Read the bottom. Smaller. Yeah. Card declined at the grocery line, guy behind me checks the time. Cashier says, “Try it once again.” Like maybe numbers change by then. Across the street, new windows shine, somebody’s name ten stories high. Down below, a paper sign: ROOM FOR RENT plus half your life. I keep hearing, “Give it time.” Funny thing, time costs money too. Everybody gets a chance. That’s what the brochure says. Fine print. Bottom line. Everybody’s welcome, just not at the same time. Good luck. Stand by. Keep your number handy while they move you down the line. I still show up. Still sign in. Guess I missed the part they wrote in fine print. Kid at the stop counting quarters twice, bus pulls off before he decides. Woman on break in a plastic chair, eating something cold from Tupperware. Office lights on twelve floors up, one goes dark, another comes. Somebody somewhere clicks approve. Somebody else loses a room. Phone says, “Thanks for your patience.” That feels personal. Fine print. Bottom line. Everybody’s welcome, just not at the same time. Good luck. Stand by. Keep your number handy while they move you down the line. I still show up. Still sign in. Guess I missed the part they wrote in fine print. Maybe I should’ve read it closer. Maybe it was there all along. Tiny little letters underneath the part that said I belonged. Fine print. Same routine. Somebody gets the window. Somebody gets the screen. Good luck. Stand by. They say the door is open. Funny. Looks locked from this side. Still I show up. Still sign in. Still looking for my name in fine print. Read the bottom. Smaller. There it is.
