Purgatory

I have seen the despair of man
as it pools and coagulates at
the nearest airport or hotel bar.
Middle-aged travelers with tears
channeled into lines on faces
eroded by years of perpetual motion.
Their slumped shoulders support
heads held down to hide quivering
lips that mutter silent prayers: May
their flights land them in equanimity.

You can tell the salesmen from the rest:
conversations about weather delays,
frequent-flyer miles, and the best
place to get a drink at the Atlanta airport.
Amid artful banter that obscures turmoil
latent beneath boisterous talk, you
cannot shake the feeling they are
trying to sell you something.

That maybe your lot at the moment isn’t so bad.
That you are not as lonely as you think.

Sure you will cry clown tears like them someday.
But you will drink them for strength.
Mix them in mortar. Build a wall to
fortify yourself from the truth that you chose this,
a life traversing lines between points.

65 thoughts on “Purgatory

  1. Rae Cobbs

    “Their slumped shoulders support
    heads held down to hide quivering
    lips that mutter silent prayers”

    Weighs like a night at a bar, with no other place to go. Purgatory, indeed. Say, have you ever read Neil Gaiman? He’s made good use of the place. Hard, great poem.

    Reply
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