Sandro Botticelli, Drawing for Dante’s Divine Comedy, 1480-95

The Terminal

A desk-clerk’s inaudible voice crackles
Giving the departures and arrivals
Some people moving as if in shackles
While others on their back carry anvils

Acrid air itself held a prisoner
Resisting but no choice I have to breathe
Feels heavy, making everything a blur
Got the feeling of being in a sheathe

Grimy concrete gives unobtrusive paths
To inauspicious restrooms and seating
Concrete texture constant outside the baths
A long hot one wish will soon be taking

Taxing but decided to take a seat
Having ample time before departing
Thought the less than being on angry street
Of shoving people and taxis blaring

In my mind am querying why this route
Are Dante and Virgil soon to arrive
Surely Beatrice will not come about
Is this my penance in this morose hive

Vanquished people trudging by looking up
Checking changes made to scheduling board
While others spread their meaningless gossip
Feeding on those who tend their sacred hoard

I now begin staring at the schedule
The click, changing from on time to delay
Creating a pain extremely awful
Causing my gray mind to begin to stray

Bowing my head yielding to this defeat
Wondering if I will get out of here
There are now cold shackles upon my feet
Now leaving has become my greatest fear