The immigration officer

Flips through my passport,
The ideograms of travel flit through: stamps at every port of entry/

There is the mark of Accra, the seal of Beirut, relics
Of gods sputtering their earthly residues of approval/

Creature of bureaucracy judging creature of bureaucracy,
Fully unaware that the rules that play him/
Play me.

An unquenched wanderlust reeks out to utter of the warmth
At Dar, the fear at the heart of war, the clink of glasses/

Time’s up, the gears of tic-toc dictate I make way for
The next in line; the slouch of time is yet to come/