P     o     e     t     r     y      . . .  

Poetry

Poetry

In the Frankfurt airport august '94

i still remember the hug you gave me standing in line waiting to board your flight back to the mall of America

if i had asked you to stay another month, go to Athens and Oslo with me, sleep on the deck of a giant cruise ship -share a blanket-

the confused look Kevin would have given us as he got on the plane not knowing whither to feel rejected or relieved he wasn't invited

explaining to your parents you'd be home later, with much more to tell, back to Paris, off to Normandy, sipping wine in Vienna, smiling your hellos to the women of Greece, noticing the boys.

and in a night of a hundred-thousand stars over the Adriatic would you have turned to me ?

speaking was what i wanted to do most, except for the three days i obsessed about killing Kevin, jamming those cookies down his throat

is there a reason that august afternoon feels like the day before yesterday ? was it some sort of defining moment that drove a nail through our hands; condemning us to touch forever, yet never closer than through the happenings of mutual friends

why are some left to suffer at airport terminals like black and white pictures projected onto London's abandon back street theatre screens ?

everyday it's another newspaper at the door, another episode of the x-files on the tube, we recycle the old papers   don't bother to tape the episodes,  even the good ones

leave it up to other boyfriends and girlfriends, next Saturday's football game and the date with the gynecologist

when will we learn to kiss first and ask about the weather or school later ?

how long until we get lost in London again

how long can we afford to wait ?

by Justin Olmanson                               

P     r     o     g     r     e     s     s     i     o     n 

read at your own risk...

discovered, lost and squandered

death

various people

prayers, hymns and questions

W H     o     m     e