Non-Refundable

The board flickered once

and turned the color of a flare.

Eighty people made a sound

like a lung losing its air.

I’m sitting on my suitcase,

the hard wheels digging into the carpet,

watching a woman cry

into a very small phone.

Next to the gate,

a half-eaten turkey sandwich

sits on the flat metal of a trash can.

The bread is curling up

like a dead leaf,

getting tough and lonely

under the white light.

Nobody is going home tonight.

We’re just a room full of people

waiting for a pilot

who isn't coming.