Time for Frühlingsfest

We drank Bier by the liter,
because we're burly Mensches.
We ate Wurst by the meter,
and danced on the benches.

I remember that day,
when we sang songs we can't explain;
when we never wanted to say,
Auf Wiedersehen.

Airports

Three hour layovers
are themselves vacations
in the rural town of
Transition where
the longer you stay,
the less of a local
you are.

Everyone in the food court
seems to be at home
in the bustle and stress:
walking with sack lunches
bearing blazing logos
and clear water bottles,
holding twisted refractions,
looking at glowing screens
or glossy magazines,
which like those who read them
are merely passing through.

I catch the eye of a guy
mummified in a business suit
taking a drink of pop from a straw
and with a glance he seems to say
"You're not from around here, are you?"

I'm sitting across from a kid
too young to read the glossy pages
too young to own a phone
filled with friends not calling.
He's even too young to
buy the emblazoned bags
or the twisted bottles,
though he watches his parents
flipping through phones and pages.

We catch eyes and seem like friends
sitting on dry rocks watching
all the restless water rushing around us,
and seem glad to share a moment
of peace in the sun, while fully knowing
this stream might also sweep us away.