A Printed Portrait

The portrait appears on the plate,
unique
when ink is fresh
and brayer new.
Early discovery reveals
sharp lines in black-
the slick impression of you.

With the second pull,
unimaginable
details seep
from the void
as dark eyes stare back.
This image is not
what I expected.

The printer’s hands are
tainted
as paper is wrenched
from the block.
Pieces go missing:
an ear, the nose,
or the heart.

The paper now exposed-
Flat
with deckle edges
chewed by a grinder.
You will look handsome here,
in the post office gallery
of other killers.

A Terminal Song

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.