in an International Airport
And so our nine lives meet and merge.
I am a journalist, from Maine,
back from that lovely festival
in Scotland, celebratory.
The man from Phoenix, neck made red
by years of wind and sun, makes light
of stereotypes and rattlesnakes.
A woman, plump, sounds Dutch. She reads
Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, page marked
by coloured boy-band photograph.
Two tall and power-dressed lady blondes
cross legs in sheer extravagance,
swig water from their bottles, talk
of some wee party next weekend.
A grave Sikh father feeds his boy
a bar of chocolate, segment at
a time, and listens to the man
from Phoenix and his tales of deals
in Arizona’s real estate.
A man of fifty, rugby shirt,
emphatically Welsh, looks at
the blondes as if he’d love to sing
in serenade, but Heathrow’s air-
port ambience inhibits him.
The prettiest of women, small,
in jeans and T-shirt, quaint stitched cape,
is listening nicely to the man
from Phoenix, Arizona State.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet
would be pleased to hear from you.