Sunup at SFO
Among the cobbles of a novel
waiting for the plane sent-on
without us, last night, vouchers
dangling at the end of a chain
reaction of late take-offs—midnight
dinner delivered to a Comfort Inn
for roaches, instead of falling
dead into our own beds
after the quarter-mile jog
to a shuttle and another terminal—
bushy-tailed guard at the gate,
arms folded like a Samoan
before our parked aircraft.
A novel about efficiency
and how we got here—
how we’ve become helpless
as cattle in a corral to make
work-enough for everyone.
drycrikjournal 