an ode to the joy of the charge

o where art thou fair visa?
its digits ring like the finest harps in france
when rolled off the tongue
of the lady on the telephone
as she traces the lines
of the raised lettering
like the gentle touch
of a mother lion's caress
o where art thou fair visa?
its date of expiration floating in the distant future
its curvy limbs of a signature
sprawling in every which direction
contained to a designated rectangle of white
oh where art thou fair visa?
without your divine electronic entry
my pockets are merely a sanctuary for dust
and lest we forget - lint too
yes, these pockets are merely a sanctuary for the dust and the lint
without your divine electronic consent