Delayed once again,
I sit and wait through
the stalled, winding lines,
through amateur hour at
security theater,
drinking overpriced water I
can’t even bring aboard.

My name is a red flag;
I become tripped up
in a cause not quite explained,
ideas plucked from fading leaders,
wisps from the ghosts of history;
black-or-white rhetoric bleeding
across their gray domain.

My scuffed shoes carefully
examined like laced explosives
reeking of sweat from war games
long-past;  flying on auto-pilot,
I gather thoughts scattered across
the miles like contrails darting
across the sky, masking the fear
I feel for us all.