Checkpoint

This city,
a grid of reflective casings:
insects' pupal shells and traffic signs.
Lanes of lights line the highway like ligaments.

Flashlit and fine-filmed with false guilt,
I answer "nothing tonight,"
and in your eyes is
bad guys
and
drunks
and
a white girl in a polka dot dress
selling beer is nothing to worry about.

Say
I'm the one asking the questions, here
like
Do you find that people are generally mistrustful of you lately?

'Cause in my birthplace
casings light the lines of picket signs:
speed limits and pupal shells and teargas.