I can identify this body: He’s a lover
of a land that wanted him dead.
That one looks like a man
who’s been long forgotten.
That one, I’d guess, is
the fretting mother of a man
on the other side of the world, she’s holding
her ticket the way you’d hold
a life boat before you drown,
the way she held her son’s
hand as the news said something sad
tens of years ago.
The airport is a concert.
They’re heroes of unknown epics. I watch
them ask questions, run to gates,
tugging luggage, make sure of dates
of flights that will write down their fates.
The airport is a hospital.
Emergencies of
shattered dreams ramp up.
