The Terminal

John Gosslee

          A reading by John Gosslee

Blue lights reflect off the white tile.
Strangers call me brother,
it’s the long hair and tennis shoes
like a fire extinguisher behind a little glass door.

A silver rimmed trash can throws up
soda cups after the grey movie’s over.
People swerve like cursive lettering,
grab at each other to spell
anything besides boring.

There are terrible worlds in the parking lot
headed home. I conform to the shape
of an empty driver’s seat
and the night stars are light years away
and dead by the time I’d reach them.