Narita Airport Stations
Adelle drove me to JFK airport
in the late model BMW she won in her divorce.
It' s what girlfriends do for girlfriends, she'd emailed in the morning.
On the Long Island Expressway she held court from the driver's seat
offering me wisdom
counseling me about dead ends as I took my last look at the New York sykline.
I watch the signs for LaGuardia airport appear.
In my confusion I am already lost in translation.
Do I ask a question? Does she know my Tokyo ticket reads JFK airport?
In silence I draft off her elegant confidence, letting go.
In the queue at JFK, I want to thank her again for my presence.
As preferred people board United 800
Me, the least preferred, use my NYC mobile.
I testify to her voice mail of the dead end,
forgetting to say thank you.
13 hours and a world away
The dead end of Narita airport.
My New York high heels click forcing sound against an ancient silence
announcing my arrival to no one
It's the new day of Japan that I'd raced to, clutching to capture.
20,000 yen in my pocket is nothing, but it feels weighty.
The currency that can't buy a thrill.
My first bow to the new world order
I hold a lifeless cell phone in my sweaty palm
My eyes search for reason and English in this most distant of discord.
A forgotten prayer fights into my consciousness
forces its way into my throat parched from pressurization.
I nearly gasp as I breathe with supreme intention
Merging Zen peace with Catholic guilt and subjugation.
I flip the lifeless cellphone open
look into its blank face
whisper a prayer of thanks into its empty ear
and step take my step into the Tokyo rain.