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