My thoughts resting on a comfortable bed of
Danny Glover and Martin Lawrence.
Interrupted!
Your beauty, your immaculate taste in decoration!
Oh, brother does it grab my attention.
Glover, who’s he?
You are short, but just cutely so, ticket lady on the left.
And you, in the middle desk with the white polo shirt (embroidered is the logo you so proudly serve, on your left, wait, yes, left breast), you are slightly overweight, chubby in the cheeks, this is not your fault.
And then you, blonde and thin, you run back and forth making sure the quality you guaruntee is upheld.
Behind you angels of the skies, you Rocky Mountain love goddesses, a sheath emblazoned with imitation-neon posterboard cutouts in the familar shapes of the peace-sign, the daisy and the happy face.
Hippy-kitsch for the new millenium.
I wonder where your next flight is headed.
I wonder what you, blonde and thin, look like in the shower. In an outdoor shower in the summer, or in your yoga sessions. Sweat beads steamrolling down your soft-fabricked sport-wear.
I am a stranger lost in the living jungle of my own imagination.
I have forgotten my machete in the Land Rover and my latest bug-spray application is beginning to wear off.
Take me away with you, take me into the clouds on your metal chariot and above the rainbows of the ominous Southwest.
Will there ever be salvation?

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