by Anne Colwell
We know where we belong.
We walk over to them, the tall balding man
who didn’t want the peanuts, the family
with four kids in matching tee shirts,
the woman who paced the aisles the whole ride
from Phoenix. And who are we, I wonder.
The middle-aged couple who held hands,
the loud talkers? It doesn’t matter,
now we gather in a circle
around a silver spinning, stand by the rail like communicants.
From above us, hands restore what we’ve
packed and parted with, what we imagined
we’d need for where we’re going or where
we’ve been, what we dress ourselves, bathe
ourselves, see ourselves in.
We crowd tight, almost touching,
watch as backpacks, skis, suitcases
hit the bumper, spin
inside our silver circle
where a siren has called us, a flashing light.
Like children we’ve left
at summer camp and come to retrieve,
packed full of new things, different
than when we let them go,
more like each other than we’d imagined.