(before you read this, I'm confident that you are not...
What I mean is I'm pretty sure no one is reading this blog.
But, if you are, I'm new at this poetry thing, so don't judge me too harshly.)
25 minutes to a connecting flight
There’s a poem in this room
nameless airport
yellow walls cling with nicotine
So many people
seeking solace in a cigarette
with small talk about rooms in airports like these
They come and they go
the smoke witnesses all
glimmer of fresh air when the doors slide apart
There’s a poem in this room
but I can’t find it for all the smoke
So I guess I’ll have just another
3 comments:
Yes!...She was a poet!...
There are poems all over these rooms and, but for the smoke, we could see them. As it is, all we can do is listen. But that's okay, come to think of it. Poetry is for listening, is for whispering into someone's ear, smoke be damned.
I love it, Suki. You found it!
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