There at the Frontier
by Richard Epstein
They checked our passports, there at the frontier,
Called someone over, big as half a house,
And he drew little pictures in the margins,
Puppies, mostly, and funny piney trees.
They turned us round and sent us back and said,
Another word, we’ll draw some kittens, too.
That was the land of rape and children thrown
From bell towers, the pride of masonry,
Of bloated cops, left lying in the street,
And theologians, made to shovel shit.
The whimsical frontier guards, as we left,
Sang lieder and inscribed a formal dance
Upon the potholed asphalt, fired guns
At burned-out cars and kissed each other’s cheeks.