Transitionless

In the Sea-Tac airport
the Tuesday before Thanksgiving,
I wait for a plane to D.C.

Before I get far, my mind starts
thinking again. Down the
road again. One thing

I can say for certain
amongst this bustle, this
flurry of air-bound maniacs,

is: I’d like it best to stay
in one place for a time,
for the rest of my time.

A transitionless life;
a lawn chair in dry heat
spent with dead friends.

My heart filled with
empty tallboys and ash.
I want to go nowhere.

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