airport waiting poem

sitting in a long haulway of vinyl seats, i'm at the corner situation of three states: Ohio, Kentucky, and Home.

treated like a terrorist by racists who look at me and my baggy clothes and think i might have a knife, they ask me to unzip, and, removing my belt, they see my backpack and thank me for my political beliefs. but they spray me anyway - "6 puffs of air, keep yr feet on the footprints!" - and still don't let me keep my bottle of water.

the sun is setting in a plume of smog, as Indiana on my right churns out more. the orange spotlight in my eyes, all i see are the 5 inches below the afterglow. my feet propped up on the window's ledge, a sign that reads "Smoking Permitted in designated areas only" now reads "Smoking e mitted," as my big toes block out letters, my hands trying to block out the sun, while my clothes stink of smoke from the roadside diner - Mr. Herb's.

i see my reflection in the glass - my face blacked out - i'm looking hippy and my hands don't look like my own. i read somewhere that 9 out of 10 people can't recognize their own hands. if they took pictures of them and had to pick em out of a hand line-up, they'd have the wrong murderer.

i'm washed in orange glow, on my way to the Grand Ol' Seat, and the sun is beginning to dip down. i've got a suitcase and my backpack politics, and i'm ready to go.