The final call for boarding
hand-luggage scanned,
the last, forgotten,
canned drink binned.
I watch him through the glass
walk to the door and hand
over his printed pass.
He waves, makes the clown’s face
that means ‘Cheer up, this time, I won’t
be gone for long’. He turns,
then turns back, puts his hand
on the terrorist-proof glass. I place
mine, palm to palm on the cold surface.
Abruptly, not looking back, like Orpheus
he peels off towards the waiting plane.
I watch the swerve of his head, his coat flap.
The screen says ‘Gate closed. Boarded.’
And I walk away with his absence.
I haven't completely finished this poem yet - it's still pretty raw. I'm tinkering with the line endings and not happy with some of the images. But I haven't got anything else to post for the Tuesday Poem and it does sum up my situation at the moment. I seem to have been waving Neil off all year, with no end in sight. We spend our lives in airports.
The Tuesday Poets.
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