life is a series of jovial friskings

someone lights through your personal belongings
while he tells a joke that you forget
to laugh at
because you’ve lost sight of your passport for a moment

your prison guard has eyes like outstretched hands
and a crotch like smuggled heroin
and for a moment you consider
giving him your number, but you’re stopped by the thought
that his fingers in your body cavities
will always feel like
he’s looking for something