border, shes disabled

Looking angry, questioning, your brow wrinkled,
you say, flatly, "she's disabled."
The guard writes something down and hands you a yellow slip,
"go into the office on the right, take all your bags with you."
You wait under the green fluorescent lights on a metal bench for an hour,
sharing the room with families with brown skin, women with headscarves.
The guard asks for your paperwork,
and you show him your passport, proof of income, proof of employment.
You wonder if the terror shows on your face,
but you try not to show it, because you know that would make it worse.
After consulting with another guard, he hands you your documents,
they go easy on you, not like your friend who was strip searched last time,
"have a nice day."

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