The immigration officer

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

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

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/
Classes.

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/
Undone.

4 comments on “The immigration officer

  1. Bart Wolffe says:

    Great poem and somehow a valid commentary on our contemporary existence.

  2. menomama3 says:

    I like this image “the slouch of time”. Nice.

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