Deportation

THEY
have ordered you
to leave.
I am
forced to stay.
I see you
waiting, patient
in your queue.
Your blindfold
slips:
only your eyes
can speak...
But such
soft talk's
no use.
The troublesome
are being sent away.

And the moans
of the prisoners
echo, far below.

THEY
made a single
      concession
for me:
the stamp on
your passport
stipulates
you have
      three days
to wind up
your affairs.

And the howls
of the tortured
echo, far below.

Dennis List