The X in Exeter has an arrow streaming up
up and away, the ex of expel, excel, exit
but not expresso. The unarmed woman
across from me in the queue-blue lounge
has a strapped-on face, and bear’s hands.
Her flight delay has been extended again,
and her family of boys are sinewing up into
middle-school age. ‘In what catchment area
is this airport?’ she curdles. I attempt a potable shrug.
Her eldest manages the coffee shop, you know,
He served the coffee still causing that trouble.
I clutch my damply written novel to my stomach
and listen very hard to the A30 not moving by outside.
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