I am waiting on the other side
when Adrienne passes under
the croquet hoop of the detector, triggering it.
The guard moves in with her hi-tech baton,
traces Adrienne's weather-girl outline.
I am at the Out-end of the conveyor belt.
Cases heap like bodies in a pit
and the X-ray of my stuff is a haul
of deep-sea angler fish.
Every one of Adrienne's pockets
makes the guard's batom hum
the opening note to a synth song.
While I am armouring myself again -
the broken turtleshell of my backpack,
the chainmail of my keys,
the thick wedge of my wallet
which has lasted so many blows to the thigh -
Adrienne is stipped of the last of her talismans -
a hairband, a striped paperclip,
a Dr. Who badge.
She hands them over, one by one,
while I rub the soft elbow pads
of my scabs.
