Terminal C

The air in Wichita smells like a floor

that’s been waxed until it cannot breathe.

I’m pacing circles by the heavy door.

I have no one to call before I leave.

I pushed the people back, I cleared the deck.

I thought that I was fine being alone.

But now I’m just a nervous, stranded wreck

with sixty percent battery on my phone.

The vending machine has a blinking light,

a red 'Out of Order' stuck on repeat.

I’m trapped in the middle of a Tuesday night

in a state I only know from thirty thousand feet.