So little
gets by
This petty
customs inspector
Who
scrutinizes the border
With eyes
like bayonets
And the
undeviating will
To lay bare
and destroy
Every secret
Threat to
his security.
Avid hands
Rifle my
carefully-arranged clothes,
Shoveling
them aside.
He
interrogates:
“So.
Whose agent are you?
“What
is your true identity?
“Your
covert agenda we already know.
“You
will not, here in the Fatherland,
“Your
disorder propagate.
“This
will we not permit.”
And I am
required to answer,
“No
one’s, Sir,” and, “None, Sir,” and,
“No,
Sir, I will not.”
I try, I try
to look straight in his eyes as I declare,
With my most
candid wide blank gaze,
“Sir, I
have nothing to declare.”
_________________________________________________________________
Lower image from http://usmalesf.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html
Middle image from http://homodesiribus.blogspot.com/2014/06/blog-post_2624.html
Upper image from www.http://thedailybeast.com/women-in-the-world.html