The ramp agent shoots some hoops
At the desolate side of the terminal
By the gate they never use
That shows flights from other doors along the pier.
The locales change like postcards that no one will see:
Puerto Rico, Montreal, Fort Lauderdale…
A custodian walks the long white corridor
To collect the minimal trash and recyclables
Left in this satellite receptacle. He looks out the window
At the strings of empty cargo trunks
As if it’s a scene from nature. His jaw drops slightly.
A gestalt of cities flows out of tubes
Connected to giant white birds
But the bridge here is folded like an accordion
With a sheet on its end like a dressing.
At the podium, a microphone tilts down,
There’s a photo of Paris - La Tour Eiffel,
Lights are dimmed like a Friday night living room
As destinations beckon in the echo
And shoes click to get somewhere else
Far from here, where travelers sleep every Christmas
And puddle jumpers go for some rest between red eyes,
And now, alone in a chair, bags hugged to a slouching body,
There’s somebody dreaming, of things that nobody else
Believes exist, chasing the unseen flight that isn’t there
Until it comes.
