Arrival of Flight FR3209
Mothers tired at the seams,
Breasts slumped like hounds
On terracotta siesta floors.
The pungent dark of Spanish gardens
Lingers. They wear the heat still,
These skin-wrapped bodies,
Burnished and tender as
The nights left behind.
Ruffle of hair that remembers
The shape and kink of other reposes --
Water's shrill embrace,
Muffled rush of a world dragged under;
Fleshy drownlands of shuttered
Afternoon apartamento rooms;
Or the cool air brush of ceiling fans
That wobble when fast.
Children scale the seat backs,
Unbuckled at last. Eye-spy
A loved one down the canary yellow
Cabin aisle. Chin-jut jostle and scrum
As bags cascade into waiting laps.
A moment of triumph before
The final push. And luggage,
Like the weather, a conversational refrain;
The currency that binds: from strangers
To mass-transit brothers and sisters in arms.
An excess baggage terrorist,
The girl in 21C is no longer in tears.
A departure gate bust sent her
Crashing down to earth.
Outside, the hum of floodlit northern skies
Welcomes her home.
© Les Roberts 2016. All Rights Reserved.