Seven Traffic Lights now up at Terror House Magazine

JFK to LAX

At any given moment within
the airport, there is
an exact count

of underwear pairs,
a certain number
of teeth.

I find myself always
in the airport, always
about to go

somewhere.
Alphanumeric gates,
heels click-clack against

porcelain tiles, smoke
of the last remaining
cigarette lounges

mingling then separating
like once-lovers
who pass each other,

faces buried
in divergent itineraries.
Only once have I fallen

in love
in the airport in my dreams, despite
the ceaseless beat

of people, despite
California,
named for an imaginary island

of Amazons bearing gold
shields.

Jason Gebhardt, from Good Housekeeping