I’ll need to buy a pair of scissors,

for TSA isn’t too fond of scissors.
I could try telling them
I’m moving
my whole life across the country, and that includes my scissors
I bought freshman year of college,
because they matched my desk organizer.
But that would make no difference to them.
They wouldn’t lose sleep over the image of
me unable to open my mattress box.
Nobody remembers to buy scissors.
They are a junk drawer staple, easily found,
especially when you want to make last minute alterations.
But I would be scissorless,
and forced to venture out into the cold night,
only to find closed shutters and dimmed lights.
Braving the wailing screech and skittering rats of the subway
just to open my mattress, which would probably be uncomfortable,
and make me feel like my mom is already
halfway across the country.
But the very worst part of this story is that when I finally buy the scissors I’ll need scissors to open the package of scissors.
The problem is cyclical and never ending,
the torture going on and on and on,
but the TSA man will just stare at me,
maybe going home that night to tell his wife about a rambling young lady
with superfluous problems and an overactive mind.
But she won’t even bat an eye
as she instinctually nods while cutting open the bills.