Airports
The bustling accents
lift my small heeled boots
to cross moving mass-
lengthy rushed departure
time. To where in Rome?
Or are you headed home?
Or perhaps to embark on
the unknown. Purple weights
pull at my eyelids, have days
slept on by, but not the sweet
release of a full night? The
blonde air servant is resting
on fuzzy reminders and
disheveled time changes.
Buckled up, my mind undresses,
an attempt to rid paranoia.
Funny how ink pressed thoughts
dig deep in my heart-tugging on
the depths of…the crying baby
behind me.