Standby for Nothing

The blue light of the departure board

flickered and died, leaving us

in the gray soup of Terminal B.

The gate agent didn't look up,

just slid the plastic barrier across

the counter with a sound like a zipper

closing on a body bag.

My phone is a black glass brick.

On the linoleum, a half-eaten pretzel

sweats into its wax paper sheet,

salt crystals turning to slush

in the stale air of three in the morning.