The airport lounge at JFK is an alien place 

cold and sterile as outer space 

where nodding heads take furtive naps;

a barren way to fill life's gaps.

 

This waiting time is wasted time, 

stagnant time that does not flow, 

tick... tick... ticking, dreadful slow.

 

When at last we get the call

squawking through the speaker

bleary eyes on each and all 

blink and roll awake.

 

Trailing bags on wheels that squeak

we shuffle off to find the gate

where once again...

we'll hesitate.

 

Until cleared to board we sit and stay,

Or stand and shift from leg to leg,

while our precious lives

tick tick away.