Customs

I am old
Working on
An ocean liner
Lecturing now off
Duty going through
Customs in the Baltic
In some small port away
From big cities isolated on
A summer’s day when I notice
The man in front of me is asked
To give his fingerprints and wisely
Complies but I am a bit nervous
As customs slowly looks at my
Passport full of places from
Around the world as I am
Going from ship to ship
And my left index
Finger is burned
A scar from my
Childhood
Picking
Up a
Burning
Hose melting
The skin on my
Index finger which
Covers that fingerprint
But as I stop at the desk
Customs looks at me and
Waves me through as I
Appear as dangerous
As a warm croissant
So I stroll on happy
To be so invisible
Remembering
Touching the
Smoldering
Hose that
Looked
Like a
Snake
Coiled dark
And I was young.