The man in green looks at me narrowly
as if for an explanation of my name, my age,
the half-moons of sweat under my arms.
He asks insidious questions -- where, how long,
why -- to which I give approximate answers
while my suitcase lies open on the counter
and he bends over the common articles inside
like a doctor delving into a chest wound
to squeeze the small pink ball of my heart.
The line behind me grows numerous,
unaware, or perhaps just unconcerned,
that outside the modern glass terminal,
starving dogs prowl the city in packs
and the smoke of burning tires persists.
The man in green nods me through.
This is whatever sign you say it is,
whatever year of whatever war.
Highland, New York
Girl Reporter; The Drunk Journalist
Midstream, Dalhousie Review, Spectrum, etc.
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