Music for Airports

To those transfixed in the tunnel of colored lights,
to those frozen on the escalators
below constellations of candles
wreathed in the cascade of didgeridoo vibrations
and the wet clicking of tree frogs.

Please bring your lost items to the lost and found.

The peninsula will be become an island.

The North West passage will open its chest
offering us the fossilized bones of explorers.

Observe out the window over the starboard wing:
the residue of the meteor that killed the dinosaurs.

Devils slide, the Devils Highchair, the Devils post office.

Stops at Rock Creek Illinois, Rock Creek California,
Rock Creek Colorado, Rock Creek Kansas, Rock Creek Utah
and Rock Creek Park in Washington DC have been cancelled.

Federal law prohibits dreaming past midnight.
Passengers showing signs or REM activity
will be shaken awake and asked
one of those questions that has no answer.

Beware of well-dressed, well-mannered strangers.

Pay no attention to the stewardess
who steps in stiff skin down the aisle.

She cannot see or hear you.
That is why she whispers to no one in particular:
Please don’t touch my body, please,
don’t touch my body.

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