At the Airport

 
Here, in the lighted room
We speak few words, and those
Attempted assume
Politeness.  Outside, rows

Of waiting planes.  Advancing
Dusk.  In our pact,
Disordered, rushing
Crowd cannot distract.

A minute away, the night
Will have its chance.  Go, now,
Our recondite
Choice is made in vow.

No parting touch.  In moment,
Hurled with senseless pace
I still lament,
Quickened to a race,

You aboard, depart.
Our love at end.  Pretend
Not strength of heart
To watch the plane ascend.

                                   - bruce g marcot

Notes:  "At the Airport" is written in a very terse structure -- four-line verses of alternating rhymes, with first, second, and fourth lines in iambic trimeter (three feet per line) and the third line in iambic dimeter (two feet).
    I very carefully used cesuras (stops, such as commas and periods) and carry-overs (lack of cesuras) to avoid a bouncing-ball rhythm.  In fact, if read aloud, this piece should flow as if in conversation.  Read it again, ignoring the cesuras and carry-overs, and it will sound far too structured.
    Mostly, though, this piece was born of pain.  I sketched the background images at about the same time.

- bgm

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