I wait and read in Terminal C,
while tourists drum pass with a
clack, click, click.
Voices rise to the top of the clef
In a wayfarer hymn while
light lyrics soar in tandem melody.
Wouldn’t it be nice to not fly alone?
At the airport bar sits a man
silently praying for someone
to join the refrain of his story.
As John Lennon croons:
Let It Be , Let It Be,
voices quiet to the holy words.
Couldn’t love happen in Terminal C?
When Yesterday drifts through the terminal,
pages of memories
open and close.
I have been told that
a good story
must have a moving finale.
Shouldn’t I try to write one myself?
I’d create a small cottage-
porches, azaleas, and maybe a cat.
I have yet to decide every detail, but
this thing’s for sure,
I would write in a lover
for a great conclusion.
Can’t I compose a storybook ending?
I skim the lines of passing people-
African, Asian, Hispanic, and White.
Flying words lift in rhythm:
Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, life goes on, right?
The terminal song continues while
I wait and read.
Perhaps I should just Let It Be.