She remembers
sitting stoned in the Sacramentoairport, which in no way
seemed excited about air travel.
To her, the jetways looked
like rectangular caterpillars
with accordions
in place of heads: polka!
People getting off airplanes
seemed like tourists
returned from Dante's Hell,
only scuffed, but disappointed.
Some endless minutes saw
her mind go blank like a TV
that received but could not
broadcast or stream.
Airplanes napped in weird
corners of the tarmac.
Gate agents spoke
laconically on the intercom.
Contagious yawning rippled
among waiting travelers.
Sacramento: an airport next
to farmland--relaxed, unimportant,
laid all the way back--all, all
the way back, she recalls
through glazed windows of the mind.
hans ostrom 2023
