Hungover at Gate B22, I stare with stale cheer
stowaway starlings flit before the wheelchair
stoically, heroically parked at vacant gate
it is quiet like a discarded newspaper
grey, flat eyeline broken by flight 87
knitting slowly across the tarmac
bound for Cheyenne, Spokane or maybe Flagstaff
tray tables locked in plastic conformity
tucked into sleep by the FAA, the TSA
A thousand rolling wheels that leave no mark
Ephemeral, transient paths set in motion
By distant business or familial obligation
Life reduced to gate-checked certainty
An economy seat to the American bland.
Bartender, another please.
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