My Travels. #11

It was a Friday in mid-December, 2014. I’d just finished a long tour of duty on a project in Chicago. I had a late lunch at O’Hare at a restaurant that overlooked the outside gate areas. After I finished my meal, I sipped my Cab, gazed outside and penned this poem:

(Warning this poem makes some folk hungry)

MEATLOAF AT THE AIRPORT

i’m eating a late lunch at an airport,

at a restaurant named after a notable,

noted, well known chef.

maybe it’s not the healthiest choice,

turkey meatloaf wrapped

in a thin slice of bacon,

mashed potatoes smothered

in a layer of light brown, turkey flavored gravy.

the meat loaf looked like it was gently placed

by gentle hands on top of the potatoes 

while thin cut, brown coat onion rings

were sprinkled over the layered stack, 

topped with one last spoon of gravy,

just a dripping from top to bottom.

i have prime seating, facing main concourses,

two in the afternoon, prime space,

prime time, prime people watching,

truly, it does take all kinds to make a world.

i peer at large windows, 

gazing outside, i see several planes

parked at several gates and i think:

it’s gonna be a long ride.