We were all held hostage, seated forward, and given a choice of coffee, orange juice, or mineral water.
My ass is numb from prostration.
And I would kneel if I could and kiss the earth I cannot locate, but for our position. It's beneath me, I know, as are these people who think they are alone with their loss of courage. I could hold the hand of the aging black woman dressed for Sunday to my left, and reassure her, to reassure myself, that all will end well. But hers are busy cradling her face, not quite so soft.
The air is stale.
Birds cannot fly here.
And my hands create a single strained fist to steady this heart's pace instead.
Blinding whites and beiges flank my eyes, so in time I become a clydesdale in a start-stop-start St. Patrick's Day parade, marching in file, singularly to suit, blinded to any clue.
But then we unboard.
No comments:
Post a Comment