Suit won’t smile at jokes. Face chiseled from stone. Man of the hour strings dream on death row.
Scanning papers, questioning past. Scrolling checked boxes, he casually asks…
“No guns? No record? No intention for terror? No drug mule intentions? No contraband?
No extremist beliefs? No traffic of minors? No dirt in your past? Or ill intent for my land?”
I shake my head no and murmur the same. While matching his gaze he bows to end game.
Pen dances with line. Hover curbs hope. Reaper is noosing dreams with inked rope.