Sitting At Sfo

Waiting for a dear friend to land. Watching the minutes creep slowly by. Amused by the constant flow of strangers, yet, not so strange. Each carries something of mine, a walk, a shirt, a pin, a watch, a rundown shoe, a beard, a lazy eye, a slouch, a limp, a tear, a hesitant glance, a disappointed glare. The hours pass and all are repeated over again, and the same waitress sold me coffee three times over, in three hours, as if each was the first time. I watched the tables being straightened by the same somber lady, every half hour, working around me as if I wasn't there, and I was struck by how we each perform our role, me waiting, she selling, she straightening the one that I wait for, coming, and how all our moves are duplicated, in a thousand terminals, and connected each to each, in a gigantic dance, reverberating all around the world, person to person, person to animal, and to insect, and to countless beings, seen and unseen, a connected organism, sometimes at war with itself, but, more often, just being, and growing, and changing, and it breathes the air, and clings to the earth, and swims in the sea, maybe is the sea, and the earth, and my passionate love, seems very small, indeed.