The stranger next to me, too close for comfort, I can practically feel his breath on my neck, or is it the air I always have to turn on high? How I hate to fly, I always seem to get searched, and while I pick the window seat, I keep the shade tightly closed, because if I see outside compared to what I see inside, I will likely get sick, and I can’t wait to get back home, to my own expansive bed, well worn, familiar, and leaving that damn hotel, fallout shelter marked on the hallway carpet, black walls, miniature room, graffiti on the shower door I could reach from a mattress stiff as I was, fire escape out my window, the loud (un)happy hours, trash and soot of the city, that turbulent feeling of being very much alone among too much of everything, sitting in too-long meetings, talking statistics, growth, in corporate foreign language, remembering how they mocked the old tour guide, a scientist, a teacher, how they walked far ahead of me on crowded sidewalks until I feared I would get lost, well I would not miss that a moment, but I surely did miss the kindness of trees, surely did miss my husband, surely did miss my crazy dog, and knowing where I could safely be myself. Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 12, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Poetry Month 2024
