She spoke haltingly through a feather duster, spilling
Brittle rubies from her fingertips. Airplanes scrunched
Their noses up at runways, feeling they were beneath
Them. The colonel ran underground in buried pipes,
From an undisclosed location outside the capital into
Our houses. The television in the terminal was always
Tuned to proofs for our existence. She said this suited
Her as she had never desired to win the lottery anyway.
Pottery shards and coke bottles were the only messages
They had left us, but what were the gasoline fumes
Trying to say? Heated, the colonel ran through pipes
In the concrete, warming the floor on cold days. The seats
In the terminal facing the television were worn-out,
Those facing the windows were ok. I had meant to call
Her but forgot; she—lies dripping from her tongue like
Rubies, fingers working silent miracles—said it was ok. Our
Baggage was somewhere beneath us, rumbling through the bowels
Of the terminal. The colonel ran through wires in the ceiling,
Bringing us the news of the day. What was her motive
For bringing up Newport, when we had all agreed to
Forget that day? The baggage handlers high-fived each
Other everytime a celebrity stepped off the Concorde. The colonel
Traveled through the ether, sometimes a particle, sometimes
A wave. The glory days were over for the glass concourse
Of the old terminal. She said she wouldn't miss it, the sunlight
Gave her headaches. Airplanes stood smugly and quietly fueled.
Through hoses, from tank to tank, the workers pumped the
colonel.  |
