The Airport

The Prince sits on a seat of ethereal light as if on a throne. He reads. Cinderella's evil step sisters sit by him, acting shy in a shameless manner. East Europeans thinking of their home-made vodka & Arab musicians cursing every bank there ever existed. Faint, sleepy talks of passengers. Dressed up women who misunderstood the road, Under-dressed bums looking for their road. Cheap perfume, musk, metal seats, The odours the cold air conditioner carries. Not only a smell, but an identification to who the passengers are. Taking a plane through time. Neither saving time nor wasting time But filling time with stillness.