High above pages of the sky rustle
Down below a customs officer wants your fingerprint
The stamp of your family-tree
On your tourist visa application.
 
The yellow Balkan moon shines across my face.
I forgot to turn it off as we flew over the ocean.
 
The family next to me has more experience.
They hid their sad pentatonic up their sleeve:
Showering the official at the counter
With a healthy dose of Californian smiles.
 
Behind the barricade, cheerful old people
with candy-floss haircuts
extend their arms to take me to heaven.