The fluorescent light scattering down through the countless windows of countless walkways of terminal D
Merchants trade hands in the blacklit lounge
and
and pilgrims are stopping at
Watering Holes
on their way to see Mecca, California.
Dust has gotten clogged in the vent.
Grifters and late-night empties huddle around the bar, and
ethanol fire
lights their veins.
The asphalt desert outside runs into the horizon,
But they can’t see it through the night.
Are you being watched?
Who is that
taking
so
Aberrantly long
In the bathroom?
What is that banging and
scratching and
chittering in there?
The arbiters of
Security
Pose a
ratty
Quilt
of
Civic martyrs,
Fake people
and also the vicious.
An actor glares out
the window
at the
Wretched
wing straggler.
On a night like this,
A son just barely fifteen,
Someone’s child,
Someone’s brother,
Someone who hadn’t yet been born
Was slain in the city snow.
A bartender sighs.
The seventh sleazer
of
this evening
to hit on her
Has left no tip.
I taste nothing
In the “Chinese”
“food”
And the elevator
Is
haunted,
And I am
unfortunately
Not
traveling alone.
But someone
on their way
To see
A
dying light of theirs
Is, unfortunately.
(Alone.)
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
The fluorescent light scattering down through the countless windows of countless walkways of terminal D
Merchants trade hands in the blacklit lounge
and
and pilgrims are stopping at
Watering Holes
on their way to see Mecca, California.
Dust has gotten clogged in the vent.
Grifters and late-night empties huddle around the bar, and
ethanol fire
lights their veins.
The asphalt desert outside runs into the horizon,
But they can’t see it through the night.
Are you being watched?
Who is that
taking
so
Aberrantly long
In the bathroom?
What is that banging and
scratching and
chittering in there?
The arbiters of
Security
Pose a
ratty
Quilt
of
Civic martyrs,
Fake people
and also the vicious.
An actor glares out
the window
at the
Wretched
wing straggler.
On a night like this,
A son just barely fifteen,
Someone’s child,
Someone’s brother,
Someone who hadn’t yet been born
Was slain in the city snow.
A bartender sighs.
The seventh sleazer
of
this evening
to hit on her
Has left no tip.
I taste nothing
In the “Chinese”
“food”
And the elevator
Is
haunted,
And I am
unfortunately
Not
traveling alone.
But someone
on their way
To see
A
dying light of theirs
Is, unfortunately.
(Alone.)
I cannot say I “like” this. I wrote a good poem here but I don’t enjoy it.
Written by
16/Androgynous/Northeast Ohio
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
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