Layover in O'Hare
In this neoromanesque postmodern cathedral the ritual is not communion but distraction-- the inability to hold a single thought past seven seconds.
The vaulted dome is aquamarine, and rows of tinted glass filter out the light as planes taxi by and the TV chatters temps, time and weather for all the major cities.
Captains and flight crews appear, then disappear, as purposeful as priests and as mysterious; while window washers goof off thumbing through abandoned copies of USA Today . . . But for the knot of us caught incommunicado, today has no meaning-- unsure of what to do with ourselves, we glance at the tube skim bestsellers or glare blankly at the runway . . .
until CNN repeats the same "breaking" news: a basketball coach is fired, tropical storm Rosa builds off Mexico-- and all the time new arrivals stumble through pushing baggage-buggies and baby-carriages--
while we sit here, purgatorial, awaiting departure and the blessed gate to take us skyward.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved