That sacred national art
form where paperwork becomes myth,
elephants file complaints,
and the universe waits for a stamp
that never arrives.
Keep it dry, absurd, and unmistakably lost.
The elephant’s trunk
cannot be served
without Form 32‑B,
signed by three departments
that no longer exist.
The black‑and‑white paper
must be stamped
by an official
who is on lunch break
until next Tuesday.
The counter clerk
asks for my number,
then asks for the number
that proves that number
is the correct number.
I present the dish.
they say it needs
a declaration of edibility,
a certificate of non‑elephant,
and a photocopy of the original hunger.
In the end,
I eat standing up
in the corridor,
because the waiting room
has been waiting longer
than I have.
The elephant’s trunk
arrives late,
apologizes,
blames traffic in the savannah.
The striped paper
folds itself into opinions,
refuses to be eaten
without proper citation.
My plate,
and my plate,
my plate,
tired of bureaucracy,
declare independence.
I chew anyway,
because hunger
doesn’t read the minutes
of the meeting.
A poem that reads like a Dali’s painting of a Kafkaesque setting. Well done PAR!
Thank you! 😊