Borders

by John Grey / February 23rd, 2025

Many years ago,
I drove up to a country’s border,
brandished my first ever passport
in the immigration clerk’s face.
I was young
and my vehicle was a near-wreck,
but I had a credit card,
no drugs, nothing worth smuggling.
I was no criminal.
Nor was I likely to be a burden
in the beady-eyed guy’s precious country.
I might even spend a few bucks
within its boundaries,
help out the economy,
the local currency that paid
the immigration guy’s wages.
I smiled. He grunted.
But he finally stamped my passport.
Then he ushered me through
his country’s door.
But it still felt like
I was going behind his back.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Dissident Voice. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal. Read other articles by John.

This article was posted on Sunday, February 23rd, 2025 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.