Laying Over
Ports of air – transient ports
of despair, and, worse, minor
and constant annoyance – also
house infinite hope, the possibility
of anywhere, or nearly. I will never
have the smooth tan back
of the woman in the mustard
halter, kneeling on a chair like
an airport pet. Let her stand
in for everyone and everything
I will never be. Everyone in a hurry,
everyone waiting. The hustled
kids, perfect jet-setters,
roller bags, beeping carts,
silvery pilots, pills, souvenirs,
loungewear and desert fatigues,
comfortable heels and
sunburns, coffee, candy,
denial beers, crosswords, and
watches. Let it all take off
into a bruise-colored Atlanta sky,
leaving behind this monument
to elsewhere. Stripped of breathing
and rush, the destinations would
disappear, and the arriving.
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