Border Crossing to the US (Poem)

Every midnight, it trickles to 12.01 AM, A new day, dark as an apocalypse. I’m sleeping on a bundled shirt, a makeshift pillow, No pajamas, only fresh clothes after a wash. How as I awake, breath comes first, The smell of pollen, rocky earth and petrichor, Sight comes next, the eye lids Letting in light,…