Airport, Burlington Vermont

 

Airport, Burlington Vermont

Two men in T-shirts are sun-roughened,
muscular in the non-gym way.
They know physical work.

On the window glass the older man
with smudgy finger sketches a map
from memory. He speaks of a trickling spring,
a field cleared by hand, a fence of stone.
A grandma who swore she was a virgin,
a grandpa who swore she was not.
Twin graves on a hill. Sold.

The younger man says, "That little farm,
every time I set foot on it, I felt hugged."
Embarrassed, they each look away to the tarmac
where jets are rolling for Newark. Chicago.
Some damn city. Now boarding.

…..

First published in Califragile—thank you editor Wren Tuatha
Photo by Dan Petit