At The Airport
At the airport
I am stopped by a uniformed man
with strange customs.
Anything to declare?
I have declared everything in my poetry.
How many poems have you, sir?
Oh, about sixty or so.
The legal limit is ten.
You will be charged duty on the rest.
I was charged.
He scribbled a receipt in blank verse.
I got away lightly this time,
he didn’t find the rest.
Thank goodness he did not look
inside my head.
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