Hollow height entombs the space—causing withdrawal. Ceilings ping-pong the babel of TV from distant walls, stirring the phonetic mash of languages—coming—and going. Rooms—as large as football fields— Lilliputian the milling crowd lost and lonely.
sterile gray tones wrap
around the folks arriving
rush fleet-footed through turnstiles
cogs spinning within full aisles
Wheels within wheels—of mind—of conveyer belts—of scrolling flight times—of luggage carts—of taxis.
Though their destinations are unknown: the hallelujah of found family, the open-armed bliss, the release of worry cuts the randomness of ramblings. Each person found, a piñata of joy, each evoking the confetti like bling of Mardi Gras in December.
Deborah Guzzi writes full time when she’s not reading. She travels for inspiration. Her new book, The Hurricane, is available now through Prolific Press. She is a candidate for the 2015 Science Fiction Poetry Association’s Rhysling Award. Her poetry appears in: Existere – Journal of Arts and Literature; Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China; Page & Spine; and others in the USA. Find out more here: the-hurricanedg.com