Lunch Page 7

LUNCH

She slides
into one of those invalid-blue discomfort chairs
under ‘Gate 21’ where her future lay refueling
a tiny brown paper lunch-bag perched in her diminutive lap
I admire
the distinctiveness with which she slips
from this unlikely sack
a half dozen oysters
artfully arranged on seaweed
and how
with the gusto of a gossip savoring overheard conversations
she slurps them into mollusk oblivion

I pinch my inner arm

She presses her tongue along the corners of her mouth
and her skirts
apparently without her assistance
appear to rise and crowd her thighs

Certain that I am deceived by a trick of terminal light
I stare as
from the worn and torn receptacle housing the gutted bivalves
a platter of tossed greens emerges
coated with crumbled chèvre
and
a tasteful sprinkling of fresh raspberries

I determine I am witnessing the impossible

She pulls out a seven inch tower of Mocha Fantasy
when her flight is called
nibbling off a small chunk
with unconcealed regret
she replaces her fantastic post-repast indulgence
into its chimeric culinary bindle
and as she takes her place in the slow moving line
a gust of air conditioned fate
holds her self-determined skirts poised
like a hula-hoop about her rolling derrière

Now her plane is not my plane
so I do not try to follow
my feet firmly planted on the ground
later
I will be sure
so sure
that I have been privy to some mystery
that I will begin buying tickets
cheap ones, at first, to nearby locations
just to roam the terminal
hoping she will reappear
later still
I will begin to fly
farther and farther
spending
more and more time
in terminals around the globe

when I find her again
I won’t hesitate
I’ll follow
find a way
to lay my head
in her magnanimous skirts
and perhaps
never return