AT THE TERMINAL
Michael Keshigian
He stood in line
at the terminal,
somewhat
displaced,
surrounded by
those
aged and ailing
anxiously awaiting
transport
to an unimaginable
region.
He exhibited no
illness
and stood at the
threshold
able and aware,
no crutch or
brace,
in a tantrum
refusing entrance.
The crowd behind
him,
excitedly
anticipating release
from the shackles
and restrictions
that inhibited
their lives
through disease
or other
impairment,
propelled a
forward surge
and launched him
airborne
through the gates
into a floating
frenzy
of darkness and
void
till luck landed
him
upon a soft,
enveloping mattress,
profusely
sweating,
paralyzed by the
thought
of his final
midnight flight.
