Spot Check

In the Stalker world of customs, 
I've a mental note to watch 
the reference
because Ryan is summoned by 
the iconic image,
waves on the ground
perhaps stopped 
in parallax scroll,
maybe he matched it to 
the unfolding negative beyond us,
everything black trimmed in white,
goth Santa.
Fog, always languorous set against
the steaming puffs piped out of
drivers 
filing in and out
glum faced, 
unregistered,
bullet timed by the stalls, unzippered,
where the air is damp and heavy
where they haven't seen sun in years
nor the refectory,
where meat turns grey 
in dumpling skins, sweated,
what time is it,
we thought we were anointed,
the lorries we passed 
stretched further back
than weighing stations, 
strung as decorations
to their warehouses
what time was I up
did I pull gloves over my socks
today or yesterday,
who has our manifest
please, 
did the shift change again
what time is it
we are on the lip of something
almost tipped over 
into Poland, 
should border
bureaucracy hold,
should we and all
these sullen professionals
form the line of 
leaving Ukraine,
they ask, forever,
who loves the sun.