Please select your payment method,
The machine says, softly.
What?
I sit on the second floor corner
of a government building near airport.
Gigantic parking lot surrounded by well trimmed shrubs.
I never knew this place existed.
But I’m shivering. My legs shaking.
My body was touched, gently
by an armed guard. It’s safe,
He said. Next window.
My feet cold on the marble tiles.
Aren’t everyone afraid of something?
My fear of being exposed,
By my not carefully concealed body,
By my broken language,
Who I really am.
This thing, this person, this soul.
Who am I really. What answer do you want,
In box 6.15b?
How can I surrender anything,
Without knowing what it is.
And touching it making sure it’s safe.
The only colored thing in this building,
Is a Coca Cola vending machine.
In front of the room where they took
A photo of me. This, me.
I’m lost. Where am I anyway.
I’m not eligible for a Real ID.