So full of empty life…
The wide halls echo with bland fuzak:
Light jazz that is in some mysterious way depressing.
At times, there's no-one to be seen,
Only chatter of announcements, pagings,
The hiss of the air-conditioning.
At other times, great knots of people
Course like corpuscles through these
Arteries of human translation,
Shedding hurry and bustle like neon beacons.
They chat business,
Call loved ones on their cell phones.
Most travel alone.
Some like me are waiting…
Waiting… waiting… waiting…
Some for departure,
Others for arrivals,
Others like me have arrived
But wait for rides.
They read mostly,
Tap away at laptops, make calls.
Some sleep.
(I tried and failed.)
Air travel is different than driving.
Driving is active, takes energy and concentration.
You can't read a book or snooze while navigating a freeway.
Air travel is more like a cruise, only
Not especially enjoyable,
More uncomfortable,
Like riding a Greyhound bus, only not as long.
Sometimes, I feel like my whole life is like this:
Waiting alone like some
Goddamned spectator,
Saying nothing,
Speaking with no-one,
Sitting in an uncomfortable chair,
Reading and waiting for my flight to board,
Waiting for departure,
But as for the ultimate destination,
I know not where.
George Chadderdon © 2005