I would
tear through
bureaucracy
like a wolf.
For credentials
I have no respect.
I’d send paperwork
straight to hell,
along with
the horse it rode in on.
But this document…
The polite functionary
moves
along the frontier
of cabins
and compartments.
People
proffer
passports
and I give
my little purple booklet.
Some passports
make him
show his teeth.
Others
he almost disdains.
And with respect he takes e.g.
the double-dormant
English lions.
With his eyes
he eats
the good ol’ boy up,
and bends
in a ceaseless obeisance,
and takes,
as though
accepting a tip,
a passport that’s an American’s.
Looks at a Polish pass
like a goat at an advert.
His eyes
bulge
as he looks at the Pole’s passport,
in dull
elephantine
police-ishness,
where’s this guy from,
and what
are these geographical fantasies?
Without turning
his cabbage-like bonce,
showing
no feelings
in any way,
he unblinkingly takes
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