There's a man in a purple shirt
eating ice cream
at eight in the morning,
a lady in a wheel chair
putting on lipstick
& an elderly couple
sitting
across from me
figuring out their smart phone.

Jim Croce croons
about time in a bottle
as the tapping of shoes
crisscrosses the concourse.

A baby screams
and three workers
converse in Espanol.
The ticket-taker types frantically
on her keyboard
as Mr. Nice guy
is longer,
he's ****** about
his missing reservation.

And me,
silent as can be,
sits here alone
banging away on my own cell,
connected to another world,
oblivious to those around me.