T.S.A. by Amit Majmudar

T.S.A.

Off with the wristwatch, the Reeboks, the belt. 

               My laptop’s in a bin.

I dig out the keys from my jeans and do 

               my best Midwestern grin.

At O’Hare, at Atlanta, at Dallas/Fort Worth, 

               it happens every trip,

at LaGuardia, Logan, and Washington Dulles, 

               the customary strip

is never enough for a young brown male 

               whose name comes up at random.

Lest the randomness of it be doubted, observe 

               how Myrtle’s searched in tandem,

how Doris’s six-pack of Boost has been seized 

               and Ethel gets the wand.

How polite of the screeners to sham paranoia 

               when what they really want

is to pick out the swarthiest, scruffiest of us 

               and pat us top to toe,

my fellow Ahmeds and my alien Alis, 

               Mohammed alias Mo—

my buddies from med school, my doubles partners, 

               my dark unshaven brothers

whose names overlap with the crazies and God fiends, 

               ourselves the goateed other.