Terminal Three

I have been 
in the airport
for three years
now. There has
been a snafu, a
failure to
enumerate, a
missed connective
kleenex. I watch
the cardboard cut
outs and their hordes
assemble, dissemble,
and resemble the muck
that counts as coffee
here behind the 
secure check
point. I am a
caesura. Three
spaces. I may call
this liminality
home.