Gate queue hymn — still here

Stuck in tariff review long enough to memorize the hold-music loop and hate it like a neighbor. People started humming under their breath — not pretty, not in tune, just human stubbornness with a melody stuck to it like lint. I pulled the twelve-string and gave them a call they could answer without looking like protesters to the glass. Still here. Still here. It isn't poetry. It's a pulse check for bodies the system would rather file as numbers.

A clerk glared through the partition like music was contraband and maybe it is, when the queue wants you quiet and grateful for the privilege of waiting. I kept the volume dock-polite and the harmonica sparse — one note between verses, enough to remind a throat it still belongs to a person. Nobody filmed it for clout. That helped. Truth travels farther without a camera begging for performance.

When the board finally cleared us, nobody clapped. They just kept singing under their breath walking toward the gate like the hymn had become luggage. That's the only review that matters. Play Come and Catch Me if you're still on a paper that thinks it owns your voice. Or write your own verse on the back of a tariff slip. I'll listen if it hurts true.