Arrival of Flight FR3209

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.

 

 

 

August 2013


© Les Roberts 2016. All Rights Reserved.