The TSA Agent Touched My Dirty Underwear
A quickened search through my tightly packed
items with tears and rips and dirt:
my clothes! my things!
Packed and sealed away for my eyes only;
Those frenzied, gloved hands,
in search of something or someone
or maybe himself?
Does he like this job?
Was it his dream to be here?
To stand here with blue latex gloves on,
to pretend he doesn’t see my bra
and a skimpy blue bikini
sitting right at the top of the pile.
Does it even phase him to rifle through my life?
This intimate dance through cotton and denim,
a journey through my very being
all because a machine told him to.
