Run Visa Run

cold sweats in an immigration queue
i`ve everything & nothing to declare
hand trembles as it pushes a passport
over the ledge into the hand of fate
a process designed to inspire nervous
twitches/ recognisable warning signs
asked for evidence of forward journey
(as if mere mortality were not enough
then subjected to a crotch pat-down
luggage rearrangements & repackings
an apology & our tidy duet with zips
questions as to future itineraries -
drinking habits employment situation
sniffing at feet & padded jackets ...

is this why they call it "customs"?
shoes removed & arms outstretched ...
some meditative pose while minions
search your person for spirit-ghosts
a hushed quiet hanging over us all
passing through a cold unassuming
concourse (all memory of your past
life erased every cavity aches for
fresh air (or death/ this country
whose culture you hope you`ll never
have to fully understand let alone
experience ... the attendant smiles
as if we`re friends & it`s all over
i`m free to do as i please (so i run

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