Day Three: ‘Gate 22’

April 3, 2015

Its name, a port, evokes juggernaut ships
and rum-handed captains, grey as their waves.
But now, a grimy landfill for motor coaches
and ye who sail on them — the saddest seas
of bottleneck highway. Outside Gate 22,
two families, divided by race and income,
but not birthplace, grip children and play games
on tablets, infants cracking with new glee.
The boy, 7, runs to the little girl,
3, and both lose their balance for a moment.
All laugh, avoiding eyes directly.
The moment, pregnant as the second wife’s belly,
flutters on past the boarding call when all climb on
and parse the neon NJ lights on 80.
The night lurches, like the big bus, round bends
into mornings and beyond.

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