Starbucks in an International Airport 



And so our nine lives meet and merge.
I am a journalist, from Maine,
back from that lovely festival
in Scotland, celebratory.

The man from Phoenix, neck made red
by years of wind and sun, makes light
of stereotypes and rattlesnakes.

A woman, plump, sounds Dutch. She reads
Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, page marked
by coloured boy-band photograph.

Two tall and power-dressed lady blondes
cross legs in sheer extravagance,
swig water from their bottles, talk
of some wee party next weekend.

A grave Sikh father feeds his boy
a bar of chocolate, segment at
a time, and listens to the man
from Phoenix and his tales of deals
in Arizona’s real estate.

A man of fifty, rugby shirt,
emphatically Welsh, looks at
the blondes as if he’d love to sing
in serenade, but Heathrow’s air-
port ambience inhibits him.

The prettiest of women, small,
in jeans and T-shirt, quaint stitched cape,
is listening nicely to the man
from Phoenix, Arizona State.

Robert Nisbet

If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet  would be pleased to hear from you.