‘What’s all this stuff?’

Asked the border guard,

Leafing through the book.

‘It’s poetry,’ replied the poet.

 

‘That’s not poetry,’ the guard retorted.

‘Take my advice. Strip away the mask.

Scrutinise the face, every line.

Demand their papers, passports, driving licences,

Birth certificates, whatever you can get.

Put them in a quiet room,

At the back, with bright lights.

Take all the time in the world.

The first sign of trouble, go for an armlock.

Always use a rubber truncheon – it leaves no marks.’

 

‘That’s poetry?’ gasped the poet, bemused.

‘What else?’ said the guard, oddly reassuring, with a wink.