port of call

it hung, in the corner

of our sight, beckoning, welcoming,

bidding farewell, then darting,

weaving through the fronds

of an interminable line racing

to the terminal.

incandescent, brilliant red,

it gave off no heat, the cool

of the morning dampening,

blanketing what, perhaps,

stirred and coiled within.

suspended, it was a world away.

 

he lay, in the corner

of our sight, hair strewn, he’s sprawled

across a linen of maps, upon

a patterned patchwork of words

- “littering encouraged” – emboldened

in the terminal.

he made his bed in irony, the neither

here nor there is where he was

but where were we, it’s hard to tell,

his face is hidden, buried in

the soiled, worn garments worn.

sleeping, he was a world away.