By Mojave (mojave7299@yahoo.com)
Date: 10 March 2000

At the Airport At Dusk

(to the one with the funny hair)

Here at the airport at dusk,
parked in my old car at the runway's edge,
I consider distance.

Windows down,
first spring weather.
I think there may be hope after all.

But you and I are defined by distance,
by the space between us,
as the night is defined by the day
and the music by the silence.

I wonder why we carry on
with this impossible arrangement--
why we wait and worry,
build and destroy...

Why the thousand wounds we self-inflict?

(Didn't think you had an answer...)

All I know
is that the breeze is warm on my arms
and that the planes
keep landing and taking off--
and that nothing ever stops.

(So I know nothing too...)

Time to go--

I turn the key in the ignition
and look up
to see a distant plane
soon to be caught up
in a tangle of stars.