Poetry

TSA agent looks at driver’s license

I would have 30 seconds of his day,
maybe 45 because of our exchange.

His brief glance at my driver’s license
showed him I live on the street
where his parents once owned a restaurant.

The place had a fire, he said,
and they sold it.
How are they, I inquired.
He didn’t know;
they are estranged from him.