Easy green tables
filled with clammy empty bottles-
This ain't the witching hour,
but strokes away from church bells.
Somewhwere between darts
and eternal lines for level velvet
I thought I heard a phone ringing
but I know it's just Pink Floyd
telling me the time.

It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.

And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***,
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.

outside my veranda's heavy sliding glass
autumnal shades pop and flap
against the ever-grey-
that expansive distant bulb
glowing dumb and cool
in its own breezes,
and the neutral black
lines of power and telephone magic
sway as they run
indifferently through this
portrait of fall-
numb to its colors and smells,
in this perfect hour
of this rush of the seasons.