Passing Port

His surly border face
hurls gruff questions at
my blanched, weary frame
and scours my documents with
needle eyes

why?
who?
where?
what for?

my destinations are too random
for his liking
my plans, too un-planned

he wants an iron-clad timetable
barcode tattoo
that can be traced
and verified

thus surveillance
can contain me
at any inconvenient moment

his grimace hesitates

antennae flailing

unable to grasp a fault in me
he grumblingly stamps
and returns my passport

and I am allowed hustle
from this queue
to
the next fault line.

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