Feet follow the crowds
Across the tarmac and towards
Terminal 1.

Neither here nor there
Countless feet shuffle up and back
Along the undead trails

Is it day or night?
No-one really knows
If they’re coming or going

The arrivals escape
As departures come home
To where they think they are

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
But it’s the hope of something more
That really stings you at the checkout

Flights are often delayed at Terminal 1
Anxiety takes off
And time checks in

Prepared for turbulence up ahead

Neon lights flash numbers
In the undead faces
What plane to catch?
Who can know?
There’s no-one to ask
After all, they’re mostly in-betweeners
And the half-here care little
Of your flight plans

It’s a desolate place, this Terminal 1
Elevator music muffles connections
With its satellite chatter

Boarding calls and final calls
No calls directing you to your gate
And still, they’re hustling you.

It’s just you at Terminal 1.
Don’t you miss that flight.