Airports are sovereign nations
we visit at the edges of our comfort
to become gummy worms in a soda can
tossed across the earth like a tennis ball;
pneumatic waiting rooms.
Little dystopian snow globes
where everyone is always going, away.
How silly, to watch birds circle the tarmac
when they have unlimited air traffic;
my seat becomes a waterfall.
The window offers an illusion of normalcy,
hundreds of us hanging on
to headphones and televisions anxious
for the commercial to break
orbiting the gate.
Poetry | Journal 
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