The poem
The flock of pigeons rises over the roof, and just beyond them, the shimmering asphalt fields gather their dull colored airliners.
It is the very early night, a young brunette sits before the long darkening glass of the airport's west wall.
She smells coffee burning and something else-- her old mother's bureau filled with mothballs.
Her nearly silver blouse smells of anise and the heat of an iron. She suddenly brushes sleep from her hair.
I have been dead for hours. The brunette witness to nothing studies her new lipstick smeared on a gray napkin.
The fires of a cremation tank are rising... she descends into Seattle nervous over the blinking city lights
that are climbing to meet her flight. The old man seated next to her closes his book. He has recognized her.
And leans into the window to whisper, nothing happens. Nothing ever happens.