A Poem for Poetry Month: The Terminal

The Terminal
By Brigitta Burguess

waiting at 3:05
I scuff my shoes
on trodden floors
sandwiched between
two strangers,
eyeing their lunch meat.

The Camera,
once hung cautiously
from my lover’s neck,
now slips into its bag
settling there images:
hands holding,
suns setting.
Never tangible, really
But living in pixelated specks,
Seurat’s playthings.

Lips once expanded by joy
beneath soft locks
in disarray,
now are citrus twisted
on a face left wanting
under a too-large hat,

until the old,
hereditary scent
of a last cigarette
returns, like a buddhist proverb
pitching forgiveness
to the life that destroys it.