Airport '06She spoke haltingly through a feather duster, spilling Brittle rubies from her fingertips. Airplanes scrunched Their noses up at runways, feeling they were beneath Them. The colonel ran underground in buried pipes, From an undisclosed location outside the capital into Our houses. The television in the terminal was always Tuned to proofs for our existence. She said this suited Her as she had never desired to win the lottery anyway. Pottery shards and coke bottles were the only messages They had left us, but what were the gasoline fumes Trying to say? Heated, the colonel ran through pipes In the concrete, warming the floor on cold days. The seats In the terminal facing the television were worn-out, Those facing the windows were ok. I had meant to call Her but forgot; she—lies dripping from her tongue like Rubies, fingers working silent miracles—said it was ok. Our Baggage was somewhere beneath us, rumbling through the bowels Of the terminal. The colonel ran through wires in the ceiling, Bringing us the news of the day. What was her motive For bringing up Newport, when we had all agreed to Forget that day? The baggage handlers high-fived each Other everytime a celebrity stepped off the Concorde. The colonel Traveled through the ether, sometimes a particle, sometimes A wave. The glory days were over for the glass concourse Of the old terminal. She said she wouldn't miss it, the sunlight Gave her headaches. Airplanes stood smugly and quietly fueled. Through hoses, from tank to tank, the workers pumped the colonel.  |
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