Terminal 5
at Gate K20
we queue for the transfer bus
to Terminal 5
thrilled to feel
a bit out of our element
women with headscarves and saris
men with gold chains and mustaches
the airport employee asks loudly
Does anyone here speak Arabic?
and hands shoot up
on the bus women wear
great spangled tents of cloth
I haven’t learned a name for
and we are off to see
another bit of the world
wndr poet
I am the poet at the door
I take your word
and add an L
I lie on my belly
sensing all the stifled heartbeats
and stealthy tiptoes
most don’t detect
in the cage of my chest
like elephant language
in a register
too low for normal
while you wander and wonder
I’m glued to my seat
making sights into symbols
wounds into sounds
tapping a button
that slaps a thin metal key
against an inky ribbon
then falls onto a leaf of paper
winnowing your life
to find the dense rich
nutty grains
Tonight I read about the wndr museum in Chicago. When you walk in, you give a single word to one of their resident poets, who then writes you a poem to pick up as you exit.
