The airport: Saturday, after the funeral. We move, then we wait,
wearing our lives around us like so much
A confluence. A relief that what matters here
is weather. So I can stop thinking
There is coughing in Terminal A.
We’ve been marshalled to the interior
of the airport
in case of debris. High winds, glass windows
& all that. Perhaps you know
the drill, though this isn’t one.
Clemson sweatshirt guy comes back with a tray
of soft pretzels Auntie Annie’s is giving away.
People sit on the floor in groups,
a festival atmosphere begins to
dominate the hunker-down
& what I do is
decide on no more
second person. This weather won’t do
for a metaphor, but
here it is anyway. Let’s speak plainly. Imagine
we have a plan. Say it involves
waiting this out. I can
wait out the silence you left in your wake.
See you to the front
door & look through it, too.