Terminal

Terminal

Fred’s dad collapsed at the terminal
Trying to fly to his old boss’s funeral
Snow and viruses scrapped the flight
A heart attack cancelled the father

Others believed it was the airport food
A reheated pizza looking archeologic
Culled from deep frozen caves

I heard a simpler story:
He clutched his chest, coughed and cried out
A flight attendant dropped to the floor
CPR refreshed the week before
After her jaw nearly broken by a man wanting nuts

Exhausted and sweating she kept on pumping
But no defibrillator hung on the wall
Vanished to maintenance 

The new one eventually arrived
Buzzed, lit up, jerked and died
Just a bit before Fred’s dad

I visited the airport late that Saturday
The glassed-in departure lounge where he lay
No one would touch the body or pizza

For a second I saw his soul creep out
Green, short and blinking
Hovering above the empty seats
Still looking for its ride

I really wanted to help
But I can’t do that kind of CPR

Posted in Covid.