The Office of Unfinished Angles

Every Monday the city delivers its spare angles
to the municipal counter:
the bus's late turn,
the queue folding round the bakery,
a gull's beak set against a headwind.

At Desk Six, the clerk sorts them:
acute, obtuse, awaiting documentation.
He dates each receipt
for a day that has not happened.

I apply for one straight road home.
He unfolds the city map.
Every route ends at Desk Six,
including the one he takes for tea.

“Could I have a different direction?”
I ask.

He taps a blank box on the form.
“That is where we put the future.”

At closing, the queue turns the corner.
The corner joins the queue.
The clerk makes a note
and files us under *ongoing*.