SFO
O Geografia, muse of travel,
sing us a song to ease
these useless nerves;
start with a lonely high note,
subway keening, held,
tension building, crescendo
to security, to an xray climax:
resolve to soothing voice
a background choir
of flights-not-mine,
publicly addressed
to people-not-me
PVG
like river rapids we move
and queues remain
in sleeplessness I seem
still: I am fixed in space, but the floor
crawls under me, I find myself
in another line, snaking
through low hallways, right angles,
towards the unseen and uncertain:
we line-mates share our feeling: we are cattle
queued for slaughter, so kept from its sight
but if Temple Grandin had designed this
at least we could see the sky
and, mid-flight,
reference the earth, we as ants,
instead we are caught
by a curious giant, held up
between thumb and forefinger
SIN
Singapore wastes no time
continuing the two
algorithmic ambiguitopias
I've read this endless day:
I scan my passport
for net access
gratefully.
digitally bolstered, step out
for humidity's warm kiss:
it feels (as ever)
like home rediscovered,
the forgotten familiar,
like a language remembered.