I feel like I am forgetting something
every time I travel. Outside baggage,
four excavators paw at the wreckage
of the old terminal like the horses
whose barn burns down in the dream my mom has
when she leaves the farm. I take the next bus.
A girl laughs to herself under an ad
for stand-up. A boy drags his younger self
through a crowd by the hand, his face haunting
my glass face. At the back of the shuttle,
an old man rings, but doesn’t answer, just
runs the phone across his cheek and listens
to a song in a language I don’t speak
until the singing stops. It’s you. It’s you.