12-Hour Daze

A queue of saggy-jointed puppets slides
in caterpillar catch-ups. Jerked to stand
by red tape strings, each drags a bag, subsides
and meekly waits for wings to flee the land.

The metal gizzard fills. The mustered, hushed
and clutching at credentials, straighten spines
and readjust attire that won’t be crushed.
One flustered aura hovers, then reclines.

Suspended emigration, dozing frozen,
packed like export apples; freight, third class.
Their hands are tied as self-restraint is chosen,
limbo-leashed until sweet androids pass
with trays of welcome rations. They distract
the minds that were so eager to be packed.