The television flickers. The ballgame comes in and out.
The players have rippling faces. The outfield is fuzzy.
Old men sit around on rickety chairs shout at the screen.
They curse the umpire’s call, they cuss the clueless
swing of the bat, and they spit oaths at the reception.

Rows of blue flight numbers are aligned
with blue times, I bounce my eyes back
and forth between to make sure I’m seeing the right pairing.
I am on the opposite
side of this too-long airport: Gate A, and I have 25 minutes
to make it to gate F, for the connection.