Houston, Gate E7, Heathrow-bound.
Forty five minutes before boarding.
Messy lines and selfies.
A metal fish juts uncomfortably
from the wall. The fountain, broken.
A little girl
wobbles with her
Mickey Mouse bag, looks inside,
cries when she sees her pyjamas.
peers and picks
at a burger, tweets it, favorites
a few responses from the worlds
in his hand who gif along with him.
who might be three, maybe four
(maybe any age because he is
quite possibly an angel with all that
curly shining hair, those dimples
that laugh that has me
curling up inside)
– arms out like an airplane –
down a runway of gray and blue tiles
then back and away and back again
and again like it will never get old.
(his mother? A mother, I am almost certain)
is looking at him like he’s already
leaving home, like he’s almost out of
//Yet even planes and prayers
in daily lift and flight return
for yet another turn, fall
inevitably to lips, to lights,
drop through the billowed heights//
When it is time to board, he is still running
– past the Starbucks cups held tight in hands –
his arms are still wing-like
he is filling up all the space