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The Airport
By
Michelle Walsh
She had thirty five dollars and a chest full of paranoia
when her duct taped shoes hit the ground
at SFO.
I watched her peel the airplane sleep from her eyes
with purple chipped nails
I scanned the corners of her mouth for smile lines.
I had seen this girl may times
each time wearing a different face,
a brighter smile,
pulling a larger suitcase.
Sometimes she¹d burst into tears at the luggage check,
other times she headed for a pay phone like someone on fire.
Once in awhile she was greeted by a group of friends
She would walked determined
as if it were only a day
a minute
a second
before her life would expire.
Months or years later
I would see her on Castro
or Haight
or somewhere in between
And she would be smoking
or begging for change
sipping lattes at Starbucks
or driving a new car with a
"Free Tibet" bumper sticker.
I've seen these girls
reflections of me
wait.
wait.
they ARE me
descending from airplanes
like baby birds dropped from the nest
into this city of dreams
city of despair
city of evolution
city of destitution
retribution
great avocados
Relocation mad libs- you fill it in.
The airport is where I study
dreams.
Copyright ©
2003 Michelle Walsh
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