At the Philadelphia International Airport,
in the ground transportation bunker
with lines of green phones on the wall
and one narcoleptic employee for company,
we waited for a cab that never came.
Handed a strobing plastic puck, instructed to wait
for it to vibrate like a personal sexual aid
or summons to a good table at The Olive Garden,
I tried to think it was not new to the earth,
that it was not some weird phylum of shellfish
dug up from warm muck far away
from Philadelphia. I tried not to think
of lights atop towers pulsing their presence at night
so that planes could avert low flight disaster.
I tried not to think of the field
where one crashed when I was a kid,
that brief fire and the sirens which seemed lost
and then the sleep returning to me
though I resisted at the window,
though I hated it, though it took me
with no care for the world where things fell
and were lost and were not found
again. We waited in Philadelphia with luggage
that was not ours spilling out
with others who were ready for anger.
Ready for ragged air to rise hot
in the piping of their throats,
ready with ripe fusillades of fuck you
and where do you get off
and all of us guessing how long we were for the flu.
In Philadelphia we waited
for a cab that never came,
no ramp, no lift, no ride for you,
though on my knee I felt more than heard
the low hive-sound
announce our arrival
to the city and the night, to the wind's alien teeth.