From an Airport Coffee Bar

The signs of choice are everywhere:

The woman in the considered top—
An emanation of orange—
Paired in complete exhibit 
With a slack tapering well to 
A dark-stockinged, un-tired foot 
Balanced with no effort on a low heel; 

The man on whose shoulders 
You could rest the floor-joists
Of a house, whose black cotton
Pique polo suggests little beyond 
The swell of his arm 
At the jersey cuff—
But the string of wood beads on
His right wrist surely 
Comes with a story; 

There, saffron, in a wide-legged pant 
Deftly capped by indigo denim, 
Followed low underneath 
By white sneakers
Bleaching their vicinity; and 

Linen everywhere, on half 
The travelers, resolved 
To what comfort can be had
In Washington in July. 

Even nervous young men— 
Who, though having never served, 
Put niche patches on their 
Soldiers’ packs, colored 
Aposematically alike
To their nylon pants— 
Participate, in their way.  

We adorn and decide
Against a tide of warrants: 
Something powerful but 
Specific to each, 
Enough important to demand
Our time, our anxiety, and our 
Lots of money, 
Drawing us through this place 
To another, or another.  

If the drift is not inevitable, 
If we may resist, 
We still do not fight 
But fall in with the flock: 
Swallows brushing a feather, and, 
Though not contented, still 
Delighting ourselves 
With its iridescence, 
Between north and south.  

July 2021