Poem: Customs

A poem that is not about going through Customs.

The stories outlasted the friendship
which is something — I guess. But
it’s much better when it’s the other
way around; I have friends from school
and we are still on the same page —
and not because we’re being forced
to read.

If I saw Richard again, we might laugh
a something stupid that only meant
anything to us — but he would follow
it up with a bunch of beers. And there
would be no progression. My other
friends from that time can sit in silence,
will be here to outlast all stories.

And what good are stories when they
have their own suitcases, so carefully
packed that to open them in public is
to undergo scrutiny, is to have all
excuses ready — the declaration card
signed, everything ordered, just
to gain some stamp of approval?