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