The Border

There it is, the demarcation line 
where one country leaves off in
diplomatic-political deference to 
the claims of territorial imperative
of its larger distinctly powerful
neighbour. Smile on your face
and passport in hand meets the
indifferent disdain of the border
agent dismissing the tender
overture of your smile in favour
of professional dispassion. You
know of course uniforms strip 
people of their humanity since
whatever empathy for others they
may ordinarily muster dissipates
as you are ordered to respond to
peremptory queries, affirming
your identity as a distinctly foreign 
supplicant before the sanctioned
social aggression of the agent
who deliberately, cursorily with a
whiff of malice aforethought
rifles your possessions through
the current of tension and implied
power before tautly deigning to
wave you through and onward.