We enter a crooked maze of black nylon ropes;
I hope there’s cheese at the end, I say.
From the back of the line, driver’s license in hand,
I see a sea of cowboy hats and baseball caps
telling what side they’re on; my wife’s glad
I didn’t wear my Impeach Trump shirt.
Beside us is the TSA straight-through line
for those declared secure in advance
for 85 bucks and surrender of privacy rights.  

The departure gate is filled with people
who wait to be packed like sardines in the can.
A woman in hijab is sitting alone,
book in her lap, Starbucks in her hand.
Nobody talks to her, they just eye her
pink carry-on with suspicion.
I wonder where everyone’s going.
My ticket says destination Atlanta.
I hope it’s not fake news.  

Protocol explains it all.
The rich board first, and then the warriors
who guard their hoard and help them get more,
active military and vets with IDs.
The rest of us line up, stratified like clouds
according to what we’ve spent.
My ticket is scanned, then handed back
by a pretty girl with glassy eyes
who chirps like a bird Have a good one.  

The flight attendants smile at anything walking
but seem tense, as if they know something.
Our spending zone is the rear of the plane
where no gets a window.
Engines roar, and we take it on faith
that the plane is going up
and the tail will follow the nose.
People in charge would tell us
if something was wrong, wouldn’t they?