At the gate they ask
for your union card.
They ask for a fact sheet.
You must have it in writing.
At the border. At the
red sign take warning.
Language may be spoken.
I know, you know, he she it.
But what, says the crow
standing guard. Sweep
the doorway once a day.
Wait for your name
to be called. Wait
for the sky to change.
Don’t mess with this fine poem. You could play with word choices but that would only make it different, not better. (At the gate they want your union card)
Thanks so much, Steve. I like that you like this one. It is terrific having you as a reader!