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In the Detroit Metro Airport
I am a business traveler and my business,
it appears, is to travel: I am lost in the rivers of
suits; moustaches; luggage; high heels and
beach literature in this oceanless airport.
We flow across the dry plains of the midwest,
leached since prehistoric times of any water
but these travelers and the Mississippi.
I am one last solitary molecule
Carried downstream towards the terminal sea;
I could become seasick, cast adrift upon this
eddying wave of uncertain humanity.
My feet beat the dusty path of moving walkways,
riverbeds filled now until they threaten to overflow into
fast food chains; coffeeshops; bathroom lines;
airport bars where lost souls wait in purgatory
for the next life. They might burst the groaning dams of
uniformed guards and security gates
and overflow, rioting, into the streets of Detroit,
where they risk becoming more than this
faceless depth of apathy, strange
sea creatures dancing warily past
in dark waters.
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