Arrivals and Departures.
The terminal echoes in the ears of a single traveler as
meaningless as the rumble of the universe.
Holding his portmanteau, he is anxious to define
the blur, the muted converse of those messages
that fly into the ceiling's vault. Distorted and perverse.
Coming and going, rocking and waves of after action,
groups pass him in the arrogance of numbers.
Back of the stands of merchandise,
the satisfaction of those who are certain of their hours,
and the occasional slumbers of those with faith in sequence
or those without hope, make him more desolate.
Until he seeks the dirty coffee bar's distraction.
Huddled before a hand with a gray rag that
wipes the counter, he asks for what
he has no hunger for and drinks and eats it as the sacrament.
His departures and arrivals, with some fluctuation in amount
are calculable.
But of the variations and terror that are the accompaniment,
he cannot know.
Indeed, he never knows if he has come too far,
but holds the stub that proves that he has spent.