Welcome! To The U.S. of A.

A brief self-consultation results in

the kind of split-second confidence

that slips into self-recrimination, for

you sit in your idling vehicle helpless,

haplessly waiting for your line at the

border crossing to move, the while

watching as those on either side do, 

and yours does not.  Fears fully realized

when, finally, yours is the penultimate

and you gawk as the border officer

hands back passports to the occupants 

of the car before yours and questions

them interminably, finally ordering the

trunk be opened as the long-haired car

driver emerges, throws up his exasperated

arms, performs a little jig of helpless fury

soundless in rage, then returns to his

driver's seat, and with a curt dismissal

gestured, is allowed to drive off.  Your

turn, and a rictus-grinning mouth orders

hat removed to reveal your elderly pate

as he scrutinizes passport photos, barks

questions from his smooth, youthful

face, reaches over to open the lid of the

freezer chest on the back seat, glares

at the pathetic collection of fruits and

vegetables your wife couldn't bear to

leave to perishable waste in that one-week

absence she bold-faced lied about not

"transporting" into the country, then

wails as he plucks out the few

California-grown clementines meant

to be eaten at the state rest stop a mile

from the border, as the uniformed,

glowering fellow, badged and duly

authorized hunches his 6'+ height to

thrust face into the interior, enquiring

whether perhaps, a $600 citation might

be preferred, then swivels to toss the

offending fruit into a trash bin, finally

giving leave to depart his presence.