Gazing at the Gate

Waiting in line for a plane ride.  Careful not to make direct eye contact with a single individual, as this alone time is more crucial than convo at the mo. No stores or stands are open as I do not know what I would buy anyway.  Jelly Bellies for my girl? My socks smell badly enough that I am aware of their presence from the mere exposure between the cuff of my pants and the tongue of my shoe.  Vacant wheel chairs say to me that they want to be taken for a ride down the vegasesque carpet to gate A2.  However, my legs are still sore from ice skating at the Galleria, and the quiet that comes from NOT being chased by forlorn security is nice at 11:18.  Is that palm tree even real?  How many gallons of water are used daily by that drinking fountain on the left? Why is there an oscillating fan near the preboard counter in the middle of winter? Will my socks be worth a salvaging wash or the dumpster at work?  These questions and more plague my mind.  Too many questions lead down holes, through tunnels, and out to unfamiliar grounds.  My new carhartt vest comforts me even if it is more of a charcoal than a bluish gray.  Perhaps my breakfast in Houston will make up for the enema that will soon pour through the entire city.  Did I pack my insulated rubber boots?  Are they tall enough to keep me dry amidst the high water mark?  If the flight doesn’t make it I hope for three things. A) I am listening to a good song when it happens. B) I get a chance to see what all the answers are, and C) that children, if not women and friends, were better off because I lived once before boarding at gate A14. 


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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1 Response to Gazing at the Gate

  1. ned says:

    i’m better off…

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