I stare down a mirrored polished hall
from a seat at gate 25 in Concourse B—
space that harbors all the emptiness of blank paper.
My eyes close around a thought

as the mind rewinds.
There was a crack in the pavement
I tripped on once. The sidewalk goes on
and on and we walk

side by side or alone. There are cracks
we step on or over, on purpose.
Some we don’t see until
it’s too late.

I fondle faded memory
in the tensile tissues of my brain.
One moment tore me like a savage
and saturated my days—

hundreds of drenched pages,
journal entries, saved messages,
and unrecorded conversations.
My eyes open to forget.

The concourse is unchanged.
My paperweight glare mutes
the quiet ramblings of families,
businessmen, and flight attendants.

I’m near the end of what I can sustain—
the sidewalk, the strain.
I leave my seat, my bag, the airport
and I am never seen again.