Check Point

On the table, privacy
in exploratory operation,
overnight bags one after the other.
From the edge of sanity,
I grin in defeat.

The agent gropes,
in momentary ownership,
the dullness inside my bag
while he evades my eyes
and, as if spilling crammed thoughts out,
he shoves my stuff into view.

Three pairs of glasses;
I’m not good with contacts
getting too close,
but I look into things carefully,
though I never want to see just me
in that tiny mirror, scratched.

A dark-cherry leather wallet
with my cards and ID,
carrying husband’s last name
like a gaudy shadow.

A pillbox stuffed with pills,
against pressure and pain,
band-aids I can’t escape.

A book with the title
“Get Out of Your Own Way”
to bury my head in
and flee from vain talk.

A change of clothes,
so passé, in a zip-lock;
I’ll change my underwear,
but I won’t change my mind.

Tucked inside an envelope
a blank sheet of paper,
useless...
I have already said
my goodbyes.

At last, peeking out of the side pocket,
a little bruised,
my passport,
so I can take a connected flight
without connections.

Pushing aside my bag,
the agent voyeur grumbles
something polite
to disperse my silent defiance
without a clash.