By Brandon Marlon
Sometimes reaching the designated gate
is a micro feat that feels macro, a private triumph
for those surpassing the hectic havoc
of an international terminal at midday,
where people vie, jostle, queue,
sardines rushing to be canned in metal birds.
This assembly of assorted cross-purposes
is but a symphony of haste and angst,
a community of wanderers, random and non-replicable,
its members anxious for destinations
while reluctantly resigned to journeys,
the real price we must pay.
Many consider lounge a misnomer,
for this is a hall of tension and dread;
not all the duty-free liquor, smartphones, or flat screen TVs
looping muted newscasts can distract the mind
from its uneasiness, from the sense of being
corralled and harried, demoted to sheeple.
In such a way station, where there are alternately
way too many seats or none available whatsoever,
the wise befriend strangers so that time flies
faster even than the 747 now preboarding
passengers with small children or special needs,
its jets set to entirely alter the atmosphere.
Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 250+ publications in 28 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com