by Travis Blair

"Life has a habit of running laps
on a never-ending track."

A DFW terminal lounge and I watch you
bid goodbye to your mother—
a woman closer to my age than yours.
Time has thickened her figure and inked
wrinkles under her eyes. You, stylish
and fit, so trim you’re a sharp knife blade
in your white pants, peck a dismissive
kiss on her cheek, eager to resume
your fast-lane adventures. The generation
gap has set in, I see it on both your faces.

She boards her plane and you return
to me, slip your hand into mine,
give my fingers an intimate squeeze.
I wonder how long I have before you feel
the same about me – dismissive, detached,
eager to banish me into my archaic cave.

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