Airport Paranoia

The maze of airport concourse, the convoluted hallways
and stairs, the gates extant for connecting flights, the
stern challenge for the traveler.  And it was I who
sought the unique gate for my connecting flight 
to Dallas upon United Flight 102‘s delayed landing.
(Headwinds slowed flight--often nature tweaks one’s plans.)

No more was I deplaned when I became one so hurried;
the 727 disgorged us sapiens to carpets tawny and slanted.
(Was this to give us all a running start to make connection?)
Perhaps it was, in that we would not be running up that hill,
yet little did I know what airport aberrations were ahead, the
onion peels and pools of grease, the walls built for subversion.
A bottleneck of folks formed due to concourse construction--
a miasma of high-lifts, materials and white-suited maintenance
men, robust and plentiful; ergo, my haste was halted to a
trickle.  Long strides became baby steps as I, along with
others, inched like blood cells, one-by-one, through
makeshift tunnels seeking our get-along, our brisk
freedom of expedition.  Some pleasantries were
exchanged despite sighs and faces at sea.

Those long, horizontal escalators were powerless;
often was the time I would catch my breath at their
expense, but this time it was in line with a growing pattern
of airport conspiracy, plots hatched to delay, strategies duly
concocted to arrest prospects of further flight.  In the mind, images
oft fly like flutter of photo film--so you allow light to mar the negatives,
you dash the survival of such thoughts and hush the voices of persecution. 

Still, lights flickered and then ceased, and permission to
allow paranoia was once again granted.  I felt frozen, and looked
for some lighted door from which to escape the unholy obstacle
that coursed as turbulent collusion.  I longed to march proud,
If I only could, yet in the struggle that was this airport’s
reality, I teetered fragile on a precipice, ready to fall.

It was the promise of further flight, even if only for an instant,
and of slipping the surly bonds of Earth.  Modest are the willing
who abide by fair solution, who temper the not so benevolent
banes of the gods, and, in the mindset of no problem, go
with the flow. The gate was reached with time to spare,
and I emerged unscathed, at peace aboard the 747
as the good Earth below grew in vastness.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
2-19-16
_______

Requirements:
--unique
--running up that hill
--If I only could
--no problem