The zipper on my laptop bag went bust
at John Wayne Airport in the morning rush.
I was a nightmare at security—
the Baba Cool in stocking feet and dust,
performing a Caesarian. That crush
would see me pull the flat facsimile
of consciousness from broken sack to trough
and slide it on the roller bars. I fumbled
with my belt and dropped it in the tray.
Getting it all together was enough
to deal with on the other side. I stumbled
to the plane and later made my way
through Newark with a lump of Naugahyde
and tangled cable slouching at my side.
About the author
Rick Mullin’s poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including American Arts Quarterly, The Dark Horse, The New Criterion, Rabbit Ears: TV Poems, and…Read the full bio
Issue 18 · June 2013
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes