alone

oatmeal sits in lumps in his bowl

the room is so silent

the migratory business men already flying home for the weekend

their fill of terrible coffee and eggs from powder

told all of their tales

sold all of their wares

lived the greatest lie they could for four days of econoclass kingdom

now the tarnished crown goes away as they slip into the unfamiliar skin of what they really are

so it is the fool, alone, lumpy oatmeal, burnt coffee to choke down, no stories, just a long day, a longer night waiting at the airport

at least there, people will flit about and he can watch

instead of the homely reflection of his own face in over shined faux marble counter

the faux poet at a false counter in a temporary place at the end of the trip

he doesn’t look too deeply into any of it

he learned over better breakfast is other places

the answers are never what he seeks