StoneLion's Writings

The Island

Bright reds and yellows,
tulips seemed a strange thing
in an international airport.
Couldn't buy `em -
customs waiting in New York.
Wanted `em anyway;
to assuage compulsive worry.
Pacing and watch-checking,
and that heavy feeling
of a lack of air in the chest.
Watched ladies playing cards
and stared out the windows;
Fog made the airport an island
and me, I was        stranded.