tired from trains and trying,
new shoelaces for the last time I tie them,
ready for the exit.
ten more pieces of paper,
wet concrete and nostalgia,
the radio is on tonight, Meghan,
and it's 1998 and I'm alone.
with dumb hope,
time is efficient in its flashbacks,
but not its flash forwards
or its right nows.
the airport is as ugly
as my desk,
and neither know I exist,
but how do we put a price on gum-soled wisdom?