an original poem


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It always takes longer
to get to the airport
than it takes to cross the ocean
and arrive. And it takes
longer to decide where to go
than anything else.
Yet I always go.
My trunks are always packed
(which is why my clothes
are always wrinkled)
so that I can hastily depart
without a second thought.
But there is time to think
on the way to the airport,
and I always turn around
and come back home. However,
I leave the trunks packed.

I have been to airport
more times than I can count,
and wonder what it's like to fly.