A Flight Before the Flight

A poem.

Photo by L.Filipe C.Sousa on Unsplash

There is nothing quite like
drinking alone at an airport Chili's on
a weekday morning, getting your first (heavy) pour in
just before the clock strikes 8 from a bartender who,
unlike many others if they saw you in this situation,
somewhat comfortingly shows no signs of worry.
In a place like O'Hare, time doesn't stop, necessarily—just tends
to move in the exact opposite way you want it to. If you've
happened to arrive early, it ticks by so slowly, and you measure it
by drinks and boredom level, even considering checking your work email
despite the fact you're on PTO. But if you show up running late, the seconds
seem to sprint by while you sweat it out, wondering if you'll make your gate
at the last minute or be relegated to a Chili's, next to a stranger who is nothing
like you, but somehow the same. There's a whole world that seems to revolve
around where you're ultimately trying to go, and if and when wheels are going up.