Terminal 1

Wandering feet follow the crowds

Across the tarmac and towards

Terminal 1: purgatory


Neither here nor there

Countless feet shuffle up and back

Along the zombie trails


Is it night or day?

No-one really knows

The humidity suggests it’s day

But the lightless windows say otherwise


It’s hard to tell if they’re coming or going

Arrivals usually escape

As departures return home

To where they’re meant to be


The in-between gate

Is a curious place

It sweats nostalgia

And sells memories in the duty free shop


Exotic bliss and postcard trips go for cheap

It’s the hope of something more

That really stings you at the checkout


Flights are often delayed in Terminal 1

Anxiety then takes off

And time checks in

Knowing of the turbulence ahead


And then you wait

You breath. You blink. You wait

Questions dart across the board

What flight are you on?

Should you board that plane?


Who can know?

And there’s no-one to ask

After all, they’re mostly in-betweeners

And the half-here care little

Of your flight plan


It’s a desolate place, this Terminal 1

White noise muffles conversation

With its satellite chatter


Boarding calls and final calls

No calls directing you to your gate

Urgently hurrying you

So you don’t miss your flight


It’s just you and the zombies in Terminal 1

One thought on “Terminal 1

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