Jamaica, Queens

Airport hotel after
a missed flight—
beige, brown, and blonde
furnishings and a big TV—
nobody sees me here,
nobody knows me here,
outside it’s parking lots
and empty lots and lots
of lonesome thoughts flying
off to space from every room;
over the roads and tarmac
and terminals they zoom,
uncontrolled, spiraling and smashing
and soaring on. “Why, why, why?”
they all say, “Why, why, why?
Why won’t you call me? Honey,
baby? Here I am, earthbound,
lonely, in Queens, in this hotel
I found, surrounded, surrounded
by beige, blonde, and brown.”
And the thoughts will fly
until they drift down, down, down
and sit dying, on the earth,
by a road somewhere, maybe
in Kansas, or maybe all the way
in Los Angeles, where they will
rest on a furry palm tree and die
calmly, like weary travelers
do when they’re through.

MB 2009

Airport hotel after
a missed flight—
beige, brown, and blonde
furnishings and a big TV—