Written by: Miguel Mendoza

In here, the coolness
is other-worldly.

On the conveyors, the passengers
seem to float towards their destination.

Down on the tarmac, a plane's wing
welcomes in more passengers
departing, walking from the shuttle bus,
their feet unseen in the rising evening fog.

From somewhere
trails a haunting nocturne 
as a disembodied voice calls out 
to milling throng to follow dociley
as lambs.

Some stay a little longer,
to indulge in tote-home vanities:
XO, Dunhill, Toblerone, Joop. . . .

The list is long,
as are the queues
to gates, some moving 
the other way, a lot with luggage
bowed, a few with only gate cards
and their tickets sticking out
from jackets' pockets
like brazen tongues.

Some read the monitors
with vapid faces, others doze,
babies whimper, 
many take a last bite 
at "The Wonders of the World."

Again, the disembodied voice
seems to intone:
 "In my Father's house
there are many mansions."

The angels of cleanliness
sweep the leavings
from the tomb-cold floor.