I’m listening to the Byrds
as I nurse my gin and tonic.
The airport din doesn’t
offer the best accoustics for McGuinn and Co,
but the bar I’m sitting in
could be extracted from here and plopped
down on a street in my town,
so I double-check my belongings
and close my eyes a minute
to relax my nerves.

Layovers just add a layer of anxiety that if I relax
too much, I’ll not hear my departure. My gate is within
a good sprint from the bar. I don’t start a tab.

By the time I touch down in Kansas City,
I know I’ll have to beseech a bleary-eyed airport
worker to conjure a taxi. Flyoverville’s hours aren’t
that of the coasts, and I can already see the
bored expression of the taxi driver that eventually will arrive
an hour after I’ve landed.

Now boarding, Denver to Kansas City.

I grab my bag, leave a ten for my drink
and make a jagged run to the gate,
my bag over my shoulder banging behind me.
I’ve just fished out my boarding pass
as the last person in line passes
the metal detector.

After being submitted to the body X-ray
and putting my shoes and watch back on, I
slip my earrings in my jeans pocket,
which I’m sure I’ll forget about and throw in the machine.

I have a mid-plane seat, and am
surprised to see how few passengers are
on the flight. I have a row to myself,
but am little inclined to take all three seats.
Sleeping in public spaces might be my phobia.
I tuck my purse between myself and the window
and turn off the overhead light.

No one looks at me
and I look at no one.