Flight of Passage
Waiting in line for two hours
and the Florida sun unavoidable,
a barrage, until someone gives up,
and the line moves and we find
some shade, a bit of wall to lean
against, and no one is talking
much, except to point out the kid
who fell asleep, or to comment
on how long the line is. How long
are we willing to wait? But there
is some joy in being here together,
all of us. Riley, too, escaping,
processing the break-up, wandering
his inner landscape. And isn't
Sophie so happy just to have her
siblings around, to have a full
house. Even this hard waiting
in quiet proximity has its pleasure.
And Annie wonders aloud if
conjoined twins feel weird after
they are separated, and the guy
in the purple shirt, standing
in line alone, seems to know
something about that. He might
be a doctor. He's from somewhere
in Pennsylvania where they had
a local set of conjoined twins
who used a cart to get around.
No one asked his name or if
he was a doctor or why he was
there alone. There is something
about waiting in the heat. Hundreds
of people in this line, in the sun,
noticing and wondering, and all
of us some kind of alone.
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