agente federal jesus morales.

he thinks
i look like a
terrorist
or a
drug trafficker.

am i a disease?
do i have
     that look
          in my eyes?
of despair?
of needing to be pushed back
up against the wall?

he asks me to follow him.
he’s going to have to go
     through my bags.
asks, where i’m coming from?
as if he could ever know
     or understand.
so i answer where
     i was
     before Mexico City,
     in Oaxaca, in Chiapas,
     before returning to Chicago.
so i explain,
and show him my passport,
and then he barely
looks through my bags
once he sees my light skinned girlfriend
and realizes i’m a U.S. citizen
because then he just lets me go
without doing anything,
but wasting my time
because of how i look.

he thinks
i look like a terrorist
or a drug trafficker
or maybe just wants
to fuck with me,
which leads me to think
the suit is a cover
to cover a man’s
insecurities.

the badge is a cover.
the gun is a cover.
the cash is a cover.
the car is a cover.
the home is a cover.
the kids are a cover.
the wife, career, and bank accounts.
our whole lives are a cover
to cover all of our
insecurities.

02.22.09.