chicago, in transit in poetry

it’s easy to fall in love at the airport
on a layover between places
in limbo
literally the in-between place
between death and life if you’re a generic mystic
between heaven and hell if you’re a Catholic believer
between one airport and another if you happen to be me
hopskipping the country in three furtive leaps
when there is not much to do except
watch depressing news about the fall of democracy or
lament the fact O’Hare has the audacity to charge for wi-fi
or buy mediocre pizza at twice the price
and fall in love over and over again
in limbo’s own food-court

the nerdy-looking woman with the awkward glasses
who clearly has no idea how fantastic her legs are
the chubby middle-aged woman who orders her food with such gusto
that you can’t help but think how many adventures you’d have together
the lonely-looking Asian twenty-something sitting there quietly
picking at her small plate of fast-food noodles
a blank slate for you to write a story upon
that stewardess’s ass
a little more than medium-sized
but way up firm and high
there are so many love stories to have and to lose here
from strictly carnal desire to
Bonnie and Clyde wild streaks across the face of the Earth
to any kind of kindred-spirit romantic flutter

but you’re only here for a couple of hours in limbo
nothing’s going to happen
nothing could ever begin to happen
but there’s a tinny voice announcing someone else’s flight
and some old white man on the television
bragging about stealing someone else’s rights and
you have to think about something
here on in limbo there’s nothing left
to do but fall in love
and fall in love
and fall in love
for the three hours remaining
until boarding

Last updated February 26, 2017