At PDX

There’s a skeleton Jack boy clouding outside

Blows face-on right at the muzzle of the still-ignited ambulance

like a challenger.

There’s a standing suitcase observing two unemployed traffic cones from afar;

His hand dances about holding the handle

as if plastic could burn

skin.

There’s a rock-dull security line on the window: projected

people lugging needs and desires

to a counter where a woman weighs them with too much

lipstick.

There’s a bent figure crouched beside the glass slope

of the window, typing words I guess

on a laptop computer – the heavy kind, not the Air.

Neck craning, fingers atrophying from the lack of gravity

in space

between one fiery thought and the next.

Between the color-coded flames and their jars

and the reflections and the desires

one can no longer see any stars

above this city.

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