Adirondack Sketches: Thursday, July 12, 2001
In the Burlington Airport
Two men in T-shirts are sun-roughened,
muscular in that non-bodybuilder way.
They know physical work.
On the window glass with a smudgy finger
the older man sketches a map from memory.
They speak of willow trees, a trickling spring.
A rocky field. Twin graves on a hill.
The younger man says, "That land was like home to me.
Every time I set foot on it, I felt like I was being hugged."
Embarrassed, perhaps, they each look away
through the glass. On the runway, jets are rolling.
Newark. Chicago. Some goddamn city. Now boarding.