(01.01.02)
Refortified by state troopers in
black jodhpurs
And full tactical belts, heavily-armed,
Owl-eyed boys in camouflage, a fussier
Staff of ticket agents, and the
usual if now
Beefed-up legions of security personnel
(A blunt force which, having seen
in us
A new appreciation for their skills,
Are, all things considered, much
nicer).
It eases first, then releases the
mind
To gauge its own insecurities,
That soft jolt of adrenaline which
Reminds us we have cast our fates
At the brink of something we can’t
defend,
Or defend altogether, against whatever
Else might be waiting out there.
And something about this milling
ruckus
Of wary selves backed up and forming
Into broken lines asks us to consider
this:
"Why does anyone ever leave home?"
And the answer is suddenly hard
to find.
Not enough so that anyone actually
steps
From line, but enough to simply
Make us all a bit more sheepish
and afraid.
At least, that is, until a hand
floats up
Above the mantled, green-lit arbor
and,
With a sense of divine authority,
Guides us forward with a beeping
wand,
A gesture by which we can’t help
feel
That we’ve been rightly singled out
For all we’ve ever claimed to be:
An army of unarmed travelers who,
Not only would not do others harm,
But remain unhindered by those who
do.
© by Sherod Santos
