A humbling thought sneaks in
under the haze of jet lag, lumped in
with the oddly personal luggage
just off American Airlines 2211
with service from DFW
buckling along the shifting silver
plate tectonics of baggage carousel #9:
the world we leave and return to so easily
doesn’t need us, doesn’t even think
of us–it just keeps running along
like we weren’t there when in fact
we were all along somewhere, though where is
the fixed nut of a problem we spin around.
What is gone? Or here? Such tesseraction
is too much after canned air and the swollen skin
of half-sleep, packed with other people’s dreams.
The travel-addled brain is fit only to watch
the bags’ slow spin, waiting to collect mine
when it’s finally disgorged, carry it to the curb,
raise a hand to hail a taxi and head for home.