Doha airport 28-29/12/16
In Transit.
In a glass box
with roaring fans
On leather sofas,
sharing greatness,
Men talk of their strategic
plans
In no-man’s land.
A worn out woman
who imagines others see
a known but forgotten celebrity
they can’t quite situate,
pushes alien food around a bright white plate
In an airport lounge where you’re free to be
the story that you’ve just told
Isolated from those who all know
the face you don’t show the world.
After quite some time of squaring up
Noting he might win the game,
Paul is moved to ask a name,
And holds out his hand to Amit.
The American, a silly man
Observes their singular similarity
Derived from their lives of grit:
‘Yes Sir. That’s why we’ve both lost our hair.
A drink?’
‘No Sir. Just think.’
A tannoy sounds; the men move on,
The woman’s transit gives her time
To find this hilarious pantomime
Is repeated endlessly.
But surely, all those men in suits
And fabulous robes, smoking short cheroots,
Must feel the same as she;
Unknown and lost in a liminal zone,
Missing home and a cup of tea.
Cherry Coombe 