Transit Lounge
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.
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