There’s something oddly honest in a queue.
No titles matter. Rich and poor alike
become mere numbers waiting for their turn
to board a bus or pay for bread or bike.
The woman with the diamond on her hand
must stand behind the student counting coins.
The child who’s tired leans on his father’s leg.
A stranger laughs. Another stranger joins.
One person lets another move ahead.
Someone pretends they didn’t see the sign.
A quiet battle fought with sideways looks –
“Excuse me . . . I believe that place was mine.”
If countries wished to understand themselves,
forget elections, speeches, grand reviews.
Spend one wet afternoon observing life
as part of local supermarket queues.
You’ll learn that civilisation’s measured less
by monuments or flags unfurled with pride,
than by the simple choice to wait your turn,
or smile, and step politely to one side.