Airports

The bustling accents

lift my small heeled boots

to cross moving mass-

lengthy rushed departure

time. To where in Rome?

Or are you headed home?

Or perhaps to embark on

the unknown. Purple weights

pull at my eyelids, have days

slept on by, but not the sweet

release of a full night? The

blonde air servant is resting

on fuzzy reminders and

disheveled time changes.

Buckled up, my mind undresses,

an attempt to rid paranoia.

Funny how ink pressed thoughts

dig deep in my heart-tugging on

the depths of…the crying baby

behind me.