Standard Delay

The screen is a wall of red ink.

'CANCELED' blinking like a warning light

over the gate where I was supposed to disappear.

A kid is howling over a salted pretzel

on the carpet that smells like old feet.

Now I’m in Room 412, where the air

is thick with a lemon that never saw a tree.

I am remarkably alone.

On the luggage rack, there’s a stack

of those scratchy, blue blankets.

They’re sealed tight in crinkling plastic,

sterile and cold and small.

I could open one, I suppose,

but I don't want to know what it feels like

to be comforted by something disposable.