Found, lost and waiting in
Where the coffee jugglers
Seek entertainment, recreation
Playing games with the hobbled
Midnight’s lame-wheeled trolleys.
Neon lights lazily flare in false ceilings
While aviation aisle angels
High-heel, high-heel, antiseptically
Glamorous and out-of-element,
Across their own reflections and echoes.
Beyond the safe-illusion glass wall
Night fog laps at the sills,
Blown like a ghost-tide across
Cheap-jewel-taxi light ways that
Slope away, some up, some down
That will take us beyond the known.
Death drags his cold-drink frame
To sit and exchange vacant stares
Across the deserted uncomfortable-warmth:
You can only hope that, this time,
He is not waiting for the
Same delayed flight that you are.
Leaning forward he whispers loudly
“There are either two kinds of fortune,
My friend …or none at all.”