THE COUPLE IN THE AIRPORT TERMINAL By John Grey

They hate each other in airports.

The hum of jets is like an interloper
urging them to argue
He's always blowing his nose for one.
He says it's the air-conditioning.
And she weeps, even when there's
no one there to see her off.

And the metal detector surely zaps their brains.
Can't find their gate.
Are they even in the right terminal.
And other people waving out
the big glass windows.
Why is there no one to wave for them?
It's all his fault. Her fault.

It has to be the eternal time killing.
Making sure they're at the airport early
so the plane can be delayed.
An extra hour of nostril havoc,
of uncontrollable tears.

They've been wrenched out of routine,
of life even,
forgotten in this cavernous place
by everyone but themselves,
and the company is remorseless.

What is that pilot staring at?
No pretty airline lady, we do not need your pity.
And whose idea was it that we should travel?
A nose blower, a weeper...
where do they have to go?

They're too much together here, that's it.
Not home, where they have their favorite chair,
a newspaper, a football game, to intervene.
Their better selves know how to get things done
but only the worst of them can wait to do it.

A cold voice announces engine trouble.

But is it the airplane’s engine or the marriage’s?

BIO:  John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.