Touch Cave
       

I am no bird but
I would like someone
to cradle me the way
a nest nestles its eggs
& this airport bathroom
stall almost comes
through. In the new
terminal everyone
on my flight waited
for a shuttle to Gate
D because our good
fortune at arriving
somewhere like Gate
48, spit-shined & well-
designed, couldn't
last. I didn't see you
on this island or in
a hotel bed or on a
train so I walked
the wet streets.
I went to a bar
where they served
drinks with names
like Wakeup Call &
Bark at the Moon.
I touched myself
the way a person
presses a button
on a soda machine
that isn't working—
not the way you
sweep the return
with one finger for
someone else's left-
behind change—
I'm talking after you
put your dollar in.
You have a lot
going on. We are
all beholden to
something. Every-
one is so tired.
Everyone is buffeted
by the wind. No matter
where I sit on this jet,
I am over the wing.

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Copyright © 2022 Erika Meitner All rights reserved
from Southern Indiana Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission