The man in the royal blue turban standsin a glass cage. His eyes, black rimmed halosof hazelnut and honey, are disengaged.He waits, as closed and silent as the doorsof the Mercy Gate. What would he ask me,shocked and awed by his dignity, as heis pawed by latexed hands that probe for bombsand contraband: Are you afraid? Do youbelieve your life is saved by my disgrace?He submits, as serene as Siloam,not creating a scene, not explodingin rage. I avert my gaze as I wait.But his eyes seize mine as the TSAdecides he’s harmless like me. His silenceseems to gauge the peril within my soulas I stand before him in my glass cage.
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