TSA

Another poem. Enjoy!

TSA

The woman snaps her
blue latex gloves at the wrist,
before twisting open the cap
of my prized Christmas gift.
Squinting eyes, like at a bug
waiting to be crushed,
she informs me that my hazelnut spread
is considered a “gel”
unfit for flight,
and commits the heavy jar, a young life
to its waste bin grave,
before I even have a chance
to say goodbye.
Pleased,
she hands me my bag,
where four gasoline-powered
zippo lighters
lay peacefully nestled,
under my iPod.
Bitch.
You may take my Nutella,
but you will never take away my freedom.