Green silk collars take first flight,
sprinting against northbound
direction of the terminal trains.
Glimpses of my escalator reflection
affords self-humor,
now to be known as
the fastest man on earth.
White-mocha over-foamed knock-off
sears the webbing of my thumb;
pastry glazes trousers.
My rushing now ceased to a jostle,
amid luggage, crates, and cages.
Conditioned in Burbank traffic,
I increase the tempo of my excuses.
"Now seating rows eighteen and up."
Is the same voice used for every update?
Hoping for mechanical technicalities,
but keep the passengers calm.
They might block me at the door
with wary eyes travelling over
my sweater sides and bulge of flask.
Oh, and pasta beard.
Anxiety attacks blend in with height.
I belong in a hole, not above Chicago.
Damn this job, the price to pay,
for the fulfillment of avoiding
Sarah's morning runs.
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Amazing how much you can tell about a person simply by viewing a small part of their lives...and equally wonderful how curious about the rest of their life it makes you.
Great imagery, perfect title, a little shy on depth and impact IMO, but still good overall. I think the only other thing I want to say is to take a close look at your ending. I think I know what you were aiming for in an "aha!" moment, but having that oh-so-personal line with "Sarah" and the runs thrown in...well, it sort of threw me for a loop. To me...if you had kept it anonymous and used wife or g/f or something a bit generic, it would have helped keep the "this could be anyone" feel of the write. This guy went from being someone I thought I knew to a total stranger, all with that one word that kept me from relating to the poem 100%. Normally I like the less geneneral and more precise descriptions, but in this case not. Other than for impact, it's nothing that will count against the poem this time, just something for you to consider.
