Terminal

The doctor drags into the waiting room and talks in black and white,
Over the hum of the color TV–

Where won’t you make it to?
Where are you going?
It must be somewhere far away, I’ve never heard of it.
Do they let you bring anything with you?
I remember, when I began to remember things,
that I was only scared to die,
because I couldn’t bring my stuffed rabbit with me.
What will you bring?
A new heart to replace yours that is hardened and broken?
Maybe you can’t even bring yourself.
Maybe they’ll stop you at the terminal door, and you’ll say:
“I’m just trying to get through.”
“To where?”
And you’ll ask what is through the door.
“Nothing.”
“And then?”
And they won’t respond.

So you’ll have to take your bags filled with stuffed rabbits
and wait in the cold terminal
wait for someone you know.
And they’ll turn out the lights while you’re sitting there,
As the nighttime cleaning staff shuffles in,
And vacuum under your chair and at your feet.

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