It's the thirteenth time.
Torn (no, ripped), taped back together,
bleeding ink,
signature-tattooed,
official, regulated, proper,
destined to arrive there,
at the wrong time,
the wrong department,
in the wrong hands.
The white envelope dark
like Hades, smirks,
mocking my inability
to follow elusive instructions.
I must have sinned.
The form's my boulder.
Why do I bother?
Why do I bother?
